


Perfect Pitch

by baconses



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mind Control, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 19:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1439728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baconses/pseuds/baconses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Something was wrong. Several years into the business of throwing himself head-first into danger, Hawke had learned to trust his gut far more than his head, and Fenris was in trouble. Had to be, but no one in the village, from Francis to the reverend mother of the tiny chantry on the hill, had seen hide nor hair of the bastard. It was like the earth had swallowed up Fenris whole, leaving a frustrated (and desperate) Hawke in his wake."</p><p> </p><p>Fenris is captured by Tevinters for some unknown purpose. Unfortunately for him, Hawke is a little slow on the uptake...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Varric The Horse

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw this catching dust on my hard drive and I started reading it. Suddenly, I was like, "wow, this is actually quite interesting." (Keep in mind, I'd completely forgotten everything about it, including all plots and whatnot.) I read and read and read, completely engaged, until I realized that I never finished it. I stopped at a cliffhanger, for crying out loud! It was horrible! And then I was like, "oh no. That won't do. That's not allowed." So I've taken it upon myself to finish this story. I want to know what happens!

Hawke woke to afternoon sunlight peering through inn's filthy windows. Fenris was missing by his side, which was odd, but not entirely unheard of. Fenris liked going out at the crack of dawn, for a run or a brood, or even a broody run on occasion. But usually, the elf would be back in bed by now, snuggled up against Hawke like some boney, clingy blanket. He'd wake when Hawke finally stirred, and grunt something that was supposed to translate indifference, but then would lightly suggest breakfast (or lunch, in this case), and they'd trail sleepily down the inn's stairs like an old married couple.

But sometimes Fenris didn't come back until nightfall. Usually, that was when he was rather angry, which only happened once in a great while, and back in Kirkwall, it often meant Fenris would be sleeping at his own run-down shack of a mansion for days unknown, pretending that Hawke did not exist. Hawke recalled the previous night--he smiled, lazy and full of lust--before remembering that Fenris had another nightmare. The smile faded, replaced by worry. He'd been affectionate towards Fenris, bringing him back down to Thedas with a slow and careful back rub that had his lover squirming out of bed, donning armor, and leaving without a word. Hawke didn't know what he'd done to cause it, but Fenris had been very clearly annoyed with him when he'd left, their door slamming loud enough to wake a few other residents.

But Hawke didn't... _really_ annoy Fenris, did he? And why? The nightmare was bad, but Hawke had seen worse. Had he said something he hadn't meant to? Sleep could do that. Hawke was like a drunken ape when he was tired, and there was zero filter between his thoughts and his mouth. But Hawke couldn't remember them actually having a conversation.

He sighed and shrugged off the worry as best he could, donning some clothes for lunch. Hawke had slept in rather late, but they'd had a long day yesterday, and then a nice night of... activities that had completely worn both of them out. So today was going to be a lazy day; eat, sleep, and hopefully retrieve Fenris for some careful make up sex to right whatever wrong he'd committed in his sleepy stupor.

Hawke didn't bother with all the armor, but took his bow and quiver just to feel comfortable, one dagger hidden at his backside, the other tucked into his boot. He trailed down the stairs with heavy steps and sat somewhat dejectedly at a stool by the bar.

He tried not to look like a kicked puppy, but it wasn't really working. Malcolm, Hawke's mabari, grunted from where he lay by a row of barrels, tilting his head up at Hawke, a twinkle in the dog's eyes that seemed to say, somewhat accusingly, _You're going to pine all day long until he comes back, aren't you?_

Maker, even the dog was sick of it. Oh well. Perhaps if Hawke looked pathetic enough, he’d get a discount on the beer? It had always worked for Malcolm, after all. Hawke gave big doe eyes to the bartender, and mentally crossed his fingers.

The bartender, Francis, was an Orlesian who looked, spoke, ate and drank like a Ferelden barfly. He had scruffy auburn hair, a five o'clock shadow, kind, hazel eyes and a slight slur to his gravelly voice that betrayed his constant drunkenness. It was something the innkeeper was always having rows with him about, but Francis was good at his job, and he treated the customers very well. Settled as they were at the back-end of nowhere in the middle of the Free Marches, it wasn't like anyone else was clawing for his position, anyway. Francis was paid more in booze than money, and seemed to enjoy it just fine that way.

“You're a sight for sore eyes, serrah,” Francis said. “Bad night?”

It was a tiny speck of a village surrounded by forest, and Hawke and Fenris had only stopped here for a short while, on their way to Starkhaven. In that time, the locals had gotten to know the two rather well, well enough to see the joke of their relationship for what it could be. Hawke nodded, and Francis passed him some swill.

Hawke downed it. He was trying not to be depressed, he really was, but if Fenris _was_ angry for whatever reason, then they'd soon come to blows about it. And Hawke would much rather be a lover than a fighter in the bedroom, all things considered.

He finished the ale quickly, and the bartender raised a brow. “That bad, eh?”

“Might be,” Hawke muttered. It was hard to say with Fenris; the elf was terribly unpredictable sometimes. Then he perked up a little. “Have you seen my better half around?”

“No, he left some time during the night. You didn't know?”

Half the town probably knew, what with Fenris slamming the door loud enough to wake a few dozen corpses. “Oh I knew he left, I just...” Hawke deflated again. Damn that Fenris. “Nevermind.”

“Lovers quarrel?”

“Possibly,” Hawke admitted, vaguely. When Francis gave him another fill, Hawke downed this one a little more slowly. He tried to think.

It had only been a few months after the hellish events in Kirkwall. Meredith and Orsino were both dead, Kirkwall’s Chantry was a smoking ruin, and the mages there rose up in revolution with Hawke’s name being used as a cry for freedom (or some such nonsense). Most of the templars were too afraid to actually hunt him down for it, but he’d left the city with Fenris at his heels soon as the heat died down, while Varric and the others, most notably Aveline, stayed behind to mend the damage he’d caused. Last he’d heard, Kirkwall was looking to Aveline as if she were viscount, and Aveline no doubt hated it... but she was also exactly what Kirkwall needed, had needed since the Qunari invasion. She gave Hawke one last order before he’d left, bidding them final, bittersweet goodbyes; find Sebastian, she said, and make him see reason before he turned the Free Marches into a blood bath.

Against Aveline's wishes, Hawke let Anders go. He’d sent the mage on his way, told him to leave the city and never come back. It was almost more cruel than killing him, and as Anders walked away the broken shell of a man, Sabastian laid an oath at Hawke’s feet that he would return with an army and raze every mage he found within the city walls.

He and Fenris had been running steady since then, desperate to get to Starkhaven before Sebastian’s army departed, but were eventually forced to stop due to sheer exhaustion. When they checked into the inn, they learned from Francis that there was no hurry, because Sebastian couldn’t take command of his men until he claimed the throne of Starkhaven, and he couldn’t claim the throne until he dealt with his cousin and every other man making power grabs. They listened to the news daily, ate up every scrap of information they could find--the people of Starkhaven wanted to change its method of governance, they wanted to vote a new ruler and set up an entirely new system run by fairness and election. The Vael’s had been dead for some time now, after all, and Starkhaven hadn’t exactly missed them. The people were calling for revolution.

And thus, there _was_ an election, the first ever in Starkhaven’s history... an election that Sebastian, last Hawke had heard, was losing to his cousin quite badly. To make matters worse, the mage underground in Starkhaven, a presence that had lingered ever since the fire that destroyed the city’s circle tower several years ago, was pushing increasingly against the Chantry there, following the example of nearby Kirkwall, and fueling what was soon to be a very bloody Mage-Templar war across all of Thedas.

The furious prince was having trouble gaining command of his own city, let alone any others. Truth be told, Hawke doubted Sebastian would get the chance to enact his revenge at all, but that being said, they still had to make haste. Hawke wasn’t going to frolic about the Free Marches with Fenris while a war threatened the fragile peace Aveline had worked so hard to regain. Besides, regardless of having fled, he was still Kirkwall's Champion. It was still his duty to protect the city, war or no war, hero or villain, exiled or not.

Not that Hawke had asked for it, per say, but responsibility was a bitch that way. He was used to it.

Hawke sighed yet again, trying not to look like a petulant child. He wanted to put this all on Anders, but truth be told, Anders was a symptom to a much bigger problem, a problem that had been lingering for centuries now. He couldn’t very well blame Anders for fleeing the Circle and carrying so much disdain for the templars, any more than he could blame Fenris for his hatred of mages. Hawke himself had spent most of his life running from the Chantry’s endless soldiers, bribing them, fighting them, or fooling them one way or another in order to protect his family--and he’d hated both parties for it more than once. But no child should be stripped of their family and everything they’d ever known, no matter what Fenris and the rest of them thought. It _was_ possible to protect mages from themselves and still allow them the simple dignity of freedom, wasn’t it? Bethany had done well enough on her own, and so had Father, and that was without considering his infamous cousin. A free mage had killed the bloody archdemon. And yet, little had changed because of it. In fact, things now seemed irrecoverably _worse_.

It’s something that Hawke had butted heads against Fenris about more than once, though sometimes... sometimes he could see the reason for that fear. Denarius was a monster, as was every magister like him. Hawke spent years helping Orana move beyond her mentality as a slave, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was _still_ helping Fenris recover from his own past. Even beyond slavery, H awke had witnessed countless deaths at the hands of desperate blood mages here in the Free Marches, he’d killed thousands of demons summoned by them, and would probably kill a thousand more before he died. And as much as they all loved Merrill, and... well as much he _had_ loved Anders, Hawke wouldn’t want to face either of them in battle. They were truly terrible sights to behold.

He’d witnessed kind, noble Orsino turn into a giant... _thing_ , he’d watched bloody _Meredith_ practice deadly magic with the transformed lyrium idol, becoming the very thing she despised at the height of her insanity. And, despite everything, neither Orisino or Meredith had been wrong. While many other mages were innocent, blood mages _were_ taking over Kirkwall. They _were_ a very serious problem that had to be dealt with. And after what happened to Hawke's mother...

No, he wasn't going to brood about that, not right now.

This was way too much seriousness for one day; Hawke had heard enough about these debates from the locals without having to hear it in his head as well. Maybe Hawke could blame the Arishok instead. Had he not killed the giant bastard, Hawke’s life would have been a lot simpler, because he’d never have been named Champion, and no one would have given a damn about his opinions. He’d also be dead, most likely, and Isabela a mindless Qunari slave, but things would also be a lot simpler.

He missed it when things were simple. Like back in Ostagar. You never had to debate the moral integrity of killing darkspawn, right?

“Serrah, more news came today from Starkhaven.”

Hawke looked up from his lone glass of ale. Francis gestured vaguely north. “There were four public executions before the ruins of the old Circle there,” he said. “Apostates fleeing Kirkwall, I hear.”

Sebastian’s order, or the Chantry's Knight-Commander, he wondered? Though Sebastian was losing the current election in Starkhaven, until it was over and a leader officially announced, Sebastian was the one currently in charge as the last royal prince of the Vaels. Though that power was also very, very limited...

“Well,” Hawke shrugged, “who doesn’t love the smell of corpses swinging in the morning breeze?”

Francis laughed. “I suspect someone does, because there are enough bloodthirsty bastards lurking about these days. We’ve a war coming, I can smell it sure as anything.”

“Yeah, all that blood and rotting flesh... it’s not a very good smell, is it? We're sure to lure in the darkspawn again.” Hawke laid coin on the bar top, and nodded to Francis in farewell. “Better get moving,” he said.

 

 

By dinner, there was still no sign of Fenris, and Hawke was worried. By nightfall, tired and aching for bed, Hawke was frantic.

He tried not to be--Fenris could take care of himself, after all--but the elf _knew_ Hawke wanted to leave for Starkhaven, and even if the elf was pissed, he’d have been back by now if only to make snide little comments about how infuriating Hawke could be. Fenris would never just disappear without warning, not for this long, not when they had a mission to do.

Something was wrong. Several years into the business of throwing himself head-first into danger, Hawke had learned to trust his gut far more than his head, and Fenris was in trouble. Had to be, but no one in the village, from Francis to the reverend mother of the tiny chantry on the hill, had seen hide nor hair of the bastard. It was like the earth had swallowed up Fenris whole, leaving a frustrated (and desperate) Hawke in his wake.

Hawke's thoughts spiraled out of control, after that--what if Fenris were dead? What if he were kidnapped? Again? What if it were slavers? What if someone took him to get at Hawke? Hawke had so many enemies... what if it were templars? What if... oh Maker, _what if..._

He was getting ready to find a horse and ride off into the night when a tiny woman with wide brown eyes burst into the inn, shrieking. Hawke stayed out of sight at the top of the stairs, Malcolm crouched and alert at his heel.

“Messere! Messere!!”

“Lily, what is it?” He could hear Francis stumble towards her with drunken, ape-like steps. “Calm down--”

“No, I need to speak to the Champion!”

“What champion? Champion of what?”

“ _The_ Champion!”

“Of Kirkwall? Garrett bloody Hawke? Here? You must be tired, girl--”

“No, I’m not, let me go!”

 _Damn_. Hawke hadn’t given out his real name, and hadn’t said a word about Kirkwall, either, in order to hide his reputation and blend in with the rest of the refugees. He hadn't even worn his trademark armor, sticking to the dull browns and blacks of everyone else (though he was wearing it now, covered by a long black cloak, as he prepped for the road again in search of Fenris). But clearly, someone had found out...

“That traveler and his friend, the elf? His name is Hawke. I heard it sure as anything! I heard it from the men, in the forest. They said his name was Hawke, and that he’s the Champion of Kirkwall. I need to tell him--”

Hawke stepped into view, sighing heavily, Malcolm following behind. The woman's eyes widened, and she backed a step, freeing herself from Francis’ grip as she did so. “Ch-Champion,” she stuttered, oddly looking fearful. This was exactly the kind of reaction he’d been avoiding.

Most people were terrified of Hawke when they learned who he actually was. Either that, or angry. He had a lot of enemies.

“You mentioned men,” Hawke said, taking charge of the situation. “Who and where?”

“I-I think they were mages, messere. I saw them in the forest. They have your friend, the elf--”

“Fenris?” Hawke reached to draw a blade before he stopped himself, trying to remain calm. “Where are they?”

“So it’s true,” Francis suddenly growled. If the man could spit fire from his eyes, he would have, and Hawke was doing his best to look pathetically innocent. Little late for that, but still, it never hurt to try. “You’re _him_? The Champion? The bloody bastard who--”

Francis had made reference more than once to his deep connections within the templars. It was how he got information so readily from Starkhaven, also known as Templar Central outside of Orlais.

Hawke wasn't sure he wanted to know who he'd killed or why in relation to the bartender. He had enough crap to worry about, now. “Look, I’m sorry to interrupt this very important revelation, but _where is Fenris_?”

“N-North, Messere. Headed towards Starkhaven, or so I _heard_ , but I don’t really--”

“My brother,” Francis growled, “he was a templar in Kirkwall. You killed him!”

And now it was time to go. “I can’t remember _every_ man I’ve ever killed, Frank, but I’m pretty sure I--”

“You bloody bastard! I’ll rip your stinking heart out!!” Francis marched towards Hawke, holding a cleaver, and Malcolm nearly jumped at the bartender's jugular. Hawke said _no_ , and Malcolm bared his teeth at the batender instead, uttering a low, terrifying growl. Everyone else in the room went white at the dog going from puppy to war hound, but oddly enough, the bartender wasn't deterred. He didn't move any closer, but he shouted quite loudly, swinging his cleaver like a sword. “I'll... I'll kill you! And your bloody dog too!!”

“Ah, well— _stop it boy, don't kill him—_ this was, um, a very nice chat, but I really should be--” Hawke dodged as the bartender swung at him again, slipping through the door before the man could recover. Malcolm barked viciously, but didn't attack, staying close to Hawke's heel.

Out the door and into the night, it seemed like half the town was now on him, some cheering his name, most trying to kill him. “Stables,” he told the mabari—Malcolm raced ahead, safe and out of range of flying, pointy objects. It was amazing how fast mobs could form with Hawke’s name being shouted at the top of twenty separate lungs.

At the stables, Hawke flailed in circles for a moment, trying to think, but too distracted in his worry for Fenris to do it properly. “Horse, horse, need a horse—ah! Good pick, boy!” Malcolm was teething at a rusty lock on one of the gates. The horse was well fed, black, and spotted in white along his flank. He seemed oddly calm, despite the twenty something people banging on the stable doors, shouting death threats.

Hawke fumbled with the gate's lock, and the horse kicked at the dirt when they approached, snorting at both of them in what was probably annoyance. Hawke threw a nearby saddle, mounted, led him out of the stables in a matter of seconds, laughing even as the mob closed in. “I shall call you Varric!”

The horse didn’t like this, and grunted angrily at him--Hawke kicked, muttering, “Now, now, let’s fight _after_ escaping the giant hoard of lunatics. _Run!”_

Varric The Horse leaped over most of the mob, and plowed through the rest, Malcolm following close behind at a dead run. They were out of the village and deep into the forest minutes later, when Hawke remembered the words of that girl, and adjusted his course best by moonlight.

They headed for Starkhaven.

 


	2. Sebastian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke has a nice chat with our favorite prince.

Starkhaven looked a lot like Kirkwall, but it was much, much bigger. Easily three, four times bigger, with an obnoxiously huge bronze gate blocking him from entering into the city walls. They were wide open, of course, because city gates were built for blights and invading forces, neither of which had occurred for years now. But there was also a detail of guards who squinted at him as he approached from the highway, as if Hawke were some dastardly fiend who would... well, alright, point taken. Hawke found trouble the same way everyone else found oxygen.

“Hail,” one guard said, and Hawke dismounted from Varric the Horse, patting him gently on the snout, which made the horse sneeze. It grunted at him again, clearly annoyed, but trotted after even though Hawke let go of the reins. Hawke adjusted the cloak that covered his famous armor, hood low over his face, and waited for Malcolm to catch up, who was panting behind them, clearly exhausted after having run most of the night.

Hawke stopped before the guard with his gauntleted hands free and clear of any weapons.

_I’m completely harmless, you see? There’s a nice little guardsman..._

“State your name and business here, traveler,” the initial guard spoke up, flanked by two others, and Hawke gave them his best smile, the one Varric liked to call, “Hawke is an evil, charming bastard, and I’m jealous.” Or something along those lines.

They were all wearing expensive silverite chainmail, lined with gold and white flourishes that reminded Hawke of Sebastian’s armor. The symbol of Andraste was painted in black on the left side of their white chestplate. Hawke’s eyes fixed on it, frowning, before he ducked his head in what appeared to be utter sincerity... except to those who knew what a magnificent liar he was.

“I am a humble follower of the Chant,” he said softly, “and I beg to visit your city’s chantry for rest and prayer.”

The guard sighed, thoroughly bored now, and waved an irritated arm. “Yes, yes, come through then. All roads lead to the Chantry, you can’t miss it. Be sure to stop by the stables near the entrance to drop off your horse.”

“Thank you, messere,” Hawke said, and led Varric the Horse passed the guards without incident.

The guard was right, it _was_ hard to miss—Starkhaven's chantry towered over the entire district, easily seen beyond Starkhaven’s massive walls, and it was the first thing one saw upon entering the city itself. It rose to the heavens as a tribute to the Maker, similar to the structure of Kirkwall’s chantry, but on a much larger scale. Hawke began to walk that way, curious and fairly sure Sebastian would be there, if he weren’t at the seat of government--but there was also the matter of his missing lover, and Hawke paused.

The girl from the inn mentioned mages. Hawke tried not to think “Tevinter slavers,” because that would be very, very bad, and it would push him right back into panic mode. But if they were here in Starkhaven (and he certainly hoped they were), that meant he had to find the mage underground. The circle in Starkhaven had burned to the ground years ago, and hadn't been replaced since then. With a very strong templar presence and no circle to hide behind, being a free mage in Starkhaven was extremely dangerous outside the underground’s resources... but probably not as dangerous as toting the name Garrett Hawke, come to think of it. He was a man now hated by templars everywhere, and this was the heaviest templar stronghold outside of Val Royeaux.

Still, the mages should let him in, right? He _was_ their hero, after all. Or so he’d heard.

Hawke only had one proper lead at the moment, regardless. After dropping off Varric the Horse, he marched, slow and steady, in the direction of Starkhaven’s chantry.

 

He walked up to the first sister he found, who was tending to one of the chantry’s millions of candles, and boldly asked, “Is Sebastian Vael staying here?”

The lay sister was suspicious, and he couldn’t really blame her. From what Hawke had heard of Starkhaven politics, plenty of people wanted Sebastian’s head on a pike. “Who wants to know?”

“Haw--err... a friend. Tell him... tell him, ‘About that business of invading Kirkwall,’ and just let him finish.”

“I warn you, serrah, if you wish him harm...”

“Please,” Hawke drawled, tossing an armored hand at the very large, conspicuous, and well trained templars guarding the chantry steps nearby, leading to the private quarters. “He’ll probably kill me long before I ever lay a hand on him.” Which was actually the truth—few could shoot an arrow as fast and accurate as Sebastian Vael, save perhaps Varric. Of course, Hawke was trained with a bow too, and had fought in Ostagar wielding one, but daggers were a lot easier in his eyes. He preferred closer combat; it was a lot more fun.

The lay sister raised a cool brow after that, and she still wasn't convinced. It didn't appear that she was going to do anything but call on the templars to escort him out, but then a low, happy gruff sounded. She glanced down at Malcolm, who was looking up at her with big dewy dog eyes, wagging his butt and panting happily. She caved immediately, giving the dog a shy smile, and Hawke cheered inwardly, beaming with pride. He'd taught him that. The dog could charm his way into The Chantry of Andraste if he wanted to. It was beautiful.

The lay sister nodded, then, and glanced at the two templars for confirmation. They nodded back—she said, “Very well,” to Hawke, and then walked through the templar wall, up the stairs, and quickly disappeared from sight on the second floor.

“Good boy,” he muttered. “Such a _good_ boy.”

Malcolm yapped happily; the noise echoed sharply in the huge chamber, and the two templars shifted in annoyance, folding their arms and glaring at him from the thin slits of their helms.

Hawke was the very picture of innocence.

The chantry tower was as tall inside as it was outside, and when Hawke looked up, all he could see was a never-ending spire, decorated in beautiful stonework that left him more than a little awed. The Kirkwall chantry amazed him too the first he’d seen it, because it was a brilliant look at craftsmanship, something he’d never seen the like of in Ferelden, where everything was made of wood and stone in the simplest designs, built only to survive the elements. There was little care for the art and beauty of things in Ferelden, or so it had seemed to him as a boy--but the Free Marches brought spirit into their construction. They cared as much for the design as they did for the purpose. A bit like the dwarves, really. But then again... hadn't the dwarves designed Kirkwall? Hawke struggled to remember.

In one hand, his youth had little to do with the Chant of Light and Andraste’s teachings. In the other, it was absolutely everything. Harboring two apostates, one of which was fairly well known and respected in the mage community, made for a life in which Hawke was far less concerned about the Maker’s fabled return and moreso on the simple act of survival. Carver and Bethany had been too young to truly remember what life was like before settling in at Lothering, but he did. The templars had always been an enemy clawing at their heels as they raced across Ferelden, and Hawke quickly learned the value in knowing absolutely everything about his enemies.

He studied the Chant well enough to be able to quote from it by heart, and he stole from it, infiltrated it, toyed with the templars on a regular basis, learning all of their beliefs, habits and rituals by way of infiltration. While Carver was busy hacking at the first objects (and people) he could find, Hawke was... paying attention. Knowledge, their father said, was the most powerful weapon in their arsenal, and Hawke, despite his outward foolishness, was very good at wielding it. By the time they’d left Lothering, Hawke knew enough about the templars that he might as well have become a brother, had he not thought they were all power-hungry, delusional, mage-killing psychopaths.

But he was a teenager, then, and that’s how teenagers thought. Now that he was a man, Hawke couldn’t help but admire their dedication, even from a distance. There had to be a sort of peace in following a role so clearly outlined, where all the wrong answers were provided for you, and everyone already knew the consequences of getting it wrong.

A familiar voice called to him from the stairs, interrupting his thoughts. It was both petulant and relieved. “You’re lucky I’m still willing to talk to you, Haw--”

“Lovely to see you too, Sebastian.” Can’t have _that_ name being released in Templar Central. Hawke gave him a look over the templar wall, and then beamed. “May we talk privately?”

Malcolm barked happily again, just as loud and obnoxious as before. He wagged his nonexistent tail, and flattened his ears, jumping around like a loon.

The templars stirred in distaste--Sebastian ignored them, laughing. “And hello to you, old friend! Of course you can, err, Garrett. I won't turn away allies at the moment, I have so few already.”

“I heard. What are you _doing_ to anger so many people? Sure, you can be irritating, but you’re a charming lad most of the time. Cute, too.”

“Err... thank you,” Sebastian blushed, still laughing. “Good to see you haven’t changed.”

“Only slightly... fun as it is talking over the templar wall, I really do need to speak to you. Urgently. It’s about Fenris.”

“Oh my, is he in trouble? What happened?”

“Sebastian...”

“Of course, of course... do come up. Let the man pass, please.”

Hawke grinned triumphantly at the templars, and they glared back at him, but relented, making only a tiny space for him to squeeze through. Unfortunately, that was Malcolm's cue to barrel through them, sending the two flying as he leaped up the stairs and collided into Sebastian with several happy yaps. The dog pounced around the prince, then settled low on his haunches, panting happily with his butt wagging up high in the air. Sebastian laughed again and scratched behind the dog's ears, murmuring something only meant for the two of them. When Sebastian's face came close enough, the dog licked it; Sebastian _howled_ with laughter, beaming from ear to ear. It was probably the first time in months that Sebastian felt any sort of joy; though a lot had happened between them, Hawke was still glad to see it again.

“I missed you too,” the prince said, wiping the slobber off his face.

The mabari barked again, and decided to jump around some more, barely able to contain his dog-like pleasure. Hawke suspected Malcolm liked Sebastian because he'd called the mabari royalty once—and Malcolm always did have a huge ego.

Hawke rolled his eyes at their antics and strode up the stairs two a time to catch up. Sebastian led them to a modest little room close by, and waited until the door was closed before asking, “Is Fenris alright?”

“He’s missing,” Hawke said, letting the worry seep into his voice now. Sebastian gestured Hawke to sit at a table, and he did, but then rose again immediately and started to pace. The prince followed him with concerned eyes, Malcolm sitting beside him, nuzzling a free hand. Sebastian pet the dog absentmindedly; Hawke wished he could live in such easy bliss.

“We were in a village not far from here,” he continued, still pacing. “Coming to see you about those choice words you'd left back in Kirkwall.” Sebastian had the decency to look guilty. “Fenris left in the middle of the night, and then... and then he was just _gone_. A witness said they were headed here. They... they were mages.”

Hawke stopped, took a breath, and knew he was opening a big, uncomfortable can of worms with this. “I need to reach the mage underground here in Starkhaven. They _must_ be there.”

“Hawke...”

“Surely you must have some idea. You were raised here, and your family has been sitting on the throne for generations. This is your home. You know it better than anyone. Tell me you have an answer.”

There was a heavy pause before Sebastian spoke again, and when he did, it was with a heavy sigh. “I feel for your plight, Hawke, believe me, I do. I know what it is to suffer at the expense of mages, and I will do all that I can to help you rescue Fenris. He will not be broken by them again, I swear to you. But in my current position--”

“Forget your bloody politics! This isn’t about the mages! It’s not _magic_ that took him, Sebastian, it was several soon-to-be- _very_ -dead men. I’m not here to debate what happened in Kirkwall--”

“Aren’t you? You were headed here before he disappeared. I know the Viscount sent you to discourage me from invasion.”

“ _Aveline_ sent us to see if you were still our friend.”

Sebastian looked hurt, at that. “Of course I... of course I am.”

Hawke stared at him, trying to read the prince and tell if this was a genuine confession—he'd been lied to more than once, lately, especially by the people closest to him. And it was difficult. As a product of his mysterious, rough and rowdy past, Sebastian was just as good as Hawke at manipulation, and a lot less obvious about it... which probably meant he was also better at it.

Hawke sighed, crossed the room again, and sat back down in the chair next to the prince. Gingerly, he asked, “Are you still planning on it?”

“Attacking Kirkwall? No,” Sebastian said. It was all he said.

“What changed your mind?”

“The Maker gave me the wisdom to... to forgive... _him_.”

“I see,” Hawke said, because what he saw was bullshit. Both of them knew it, too, but now wasn’t the time to touch on issues that would soon end up with one or both of them irrecoverably hurt. Sebastian clearly needed time yet to truly calm down, and Fenris was the real problem right now. As long as the prince wasn't about to mow down Kirkwall on some rash vendetta, Hawke could move on. “The underground,” he hissed, suddenly impatient. “Where is it?”

There was silence for a while, and Hawke wanted to scream. But before he could call on Sebastian’s selfishness, the prince took a deep breath, and finally said, “I have heard of rumors not far beyond the city walls, into the forests east of here. You may find something more concrete in the catacombs. Many templars theorize that the mages have been using the network under ground as a means of passage, similar to the way it was done in Dark Town. I can’t be certain, though. We have never caught them in the act.”

It was far more than he’d been hoping for--Hawke took his friend's hand, and shook it. “Thank you, Sebastian.”

He stood to leave when the prince seized Hawke's hand again, pulling him back. Worry was clear in Sebastian's eyes now, and his voice was as kind as it had ever been. “You're exhausted,” he said. “You can't do this alone. Let me help you.”

“You have enough problems.”

“If Fenris really is in trouble, that can wait, Hawke. This is serious.”

“No. Let me... let me do this myself.” Getting Sebastian involved with mages was bad for business no matter how you looked at it. Starkhaven was already a big barrel of gunpowder, and the last thing it needed was a spark to set everything off. “If it gets bad enough, I'll call on you. I promise.”

But Sebastian knew a liar when he saw one. “Swear it like you mean it, Hawke.”

“I swear.”

“Like you mean it.”

“I _swear_. First sign of real trouble, I'll come crawling back to the chantry.”

“If you don't come back with Fenris in two days, I'm following. No friends of mine are going to die by mages in my own city. Understand?”

“Yes, your highness.”

 


	3. Two Dwarves And A Sad Little Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke explores the catacombs underneath Starkhaven, and runs into some old friends. Well... if by friends I mean one person in particular Hawke never wanted to see again.

As with Kirkwall, all he had to do was go down. Hawke found the nearest tunnel entrance, crawled through the dilapidated boards, and set about exploring the ancient undercity of Starkhaven.

The catacombs were constructed when the dwarves still ruled the Thaigs, long before the darkspawn stripped them of their territory. They were connected to the Deep Roads, built in favor of a treaty over territory, alliance negotiations, and various trade agreements. Due to the nature of the agreements, the tunnels weren’t built to house the dead... but when the darkspawn attacked, slaughtering thousands of dwarves a single night, the people of Starkhaven attempted to aid their allies, and both human and dwarven alike lives were lost in the battle. Eventually, they drove back the darkspawn far enough to permanently seal the Deep Roads gate to Starkhaven, but the nearby Thaig was left to decay as the darkspawn picked through the bones of the fallen. Humans and dwarves alike each buried their dead in what was now called the catacombs, and plaques were left on each tomb as a reminder to their sacrifice.

But now, only Hawke and his dog were to honor them, both thoroughly lost in the deep, dark caverns as they took one turn too many. Dwarven statues paying tribute to lost paragons towered above them, crevices dug into the walls at either side housing ancient bodies and lost relics. There were unlit torches on the walls every so many steps--Hawke took one, and lit it with a flint. In his other hand, he held a dagger, ready for the shadows to leap out at them.

Being so close to the deep roads made Hawke more than a little wary, and he was right to be on guard. The catacombs traveled steadily downward, until they split apart and Hawke was forced to choose passages at random. He cursed the lack of a map, examining the walls with his torch for clues, when a deep voice pierced the silence, causing him to stumble back in surprise.

“Flaming nughumpers!! Close the damn door!”

The shout, thick with a dwarven accent, seemed to come out of no where. As Hawke rounded another corner, the clatter and clang of battle became apparent. Growling darkspawn sent a familiar chill down his spine; it was a nice change of pace, to be honest, because he'd gotten rather tired of the raving templars and blood mages thing, but... well, _no_ one ever looked forward to getting so near tainted creatures that could quickly bring his death if he wasn't careful. Hawke prepped himself mentally for few seconds, glancing down at Malcolm. The dog growled low, teeth bared for battle, and Hawke nodded at him. They both ran towards the chaos... but Hawke skid to a halt again when an unexpected voice rose above the shrieks, hisses and battle cries.

“I can't—it's _stuck!_ ”

Hawke's heart stopped.

“Impossible! That's dwarven engineering, our locks don't get _stuck._ ”

Then started again.

“If it's so impossible, explain why it won't work!”

“Just hit it, ya sodding skirt-wearing nancypants!”

“Oghren, I don't want to risk breaking--”

“Shut up, both of you. Let the rogue handle this, yeah? Move it, Anders!”

As he rounded the last corner, Hawke saw a female dwarf with casteless tattoos pounding on a latch that seemed connected to a large, heavy gate leading into the Deep Roads. Sure enough, Anders, and a male dwarf presumably named Oghren, were battling a tremendous hoard of darkspawn just beyond the gate. There were easily fifty of them, various genlocks, hurlocks, emissaries, and a large, armored ogre—Hawke stared at Ander's back for another moment as the mage summoned a firestorm over the hoard, roaring furiously at them, his voice reverberating with Justice. He was glowing bright blue. The darkspawn screamed in terror as several lit on fire, and Anders seemed as brazen as ever, both he and Justice sneering their hatred at the lot of them.

Malcolm, running ahead, yapped at him in disgust. Hawke shook himself. They both lunged into the fray with little more than a laugh at life's incredibly bad timing, Hawke slicing the neck of a hurlock, stabbing two genlocks, and then diving right for the nearest emissary, interrupting a curse meant for Anders. Malcolm fought beside the dwarven warrior, overwhelming a shriek who'd been trying to sneak up on Oghren from behind.

In the roar of battle, Anders grunted in surprise, losing the blue fury to a look of utter horror.

“H-Hawke?!”

Even if there hadn't been a huge hoard of darkspawn threatening both them and the city of Starkhaven, Hawke wasn't sure he'd have dignified Anders with a response. Sure, he hadn't _killed_ the man, but for the tiniest second, with Kirkwall crumbling to fire and ash around him, Sebastian a trembling wreck to his right, Fenris shockingly quiet to his left, blind hurt slashing at Hawke's innards... he'd wanted to do it. His fingers had twitched with the need to bury a dagger right into Anders' heart for betraying him exactly as the mage had always said he would. It was the curious mix of lies and brutal honesty that stung the worst, because Hawke hadn't known what to do with it. He'd felt... _things_ , for the man, moreso than he should have, and it shamed him when Fenris noticed it, too. Ultimately, casting Anders out of the city was an act of selfishness; he couldn't kill the healer anymore than he could kill Fenris. Except, Fenris hadn't killed the Grand Cleric and started a bloody war, now did he? No, Fenris was currently being taken to Maker knew where to suffer terrible, untold horrors that grew further in evil the longer Hawke's imagination was allowed to run wild without reprieve, and Anders, someone who arguably _deserved_ every sort of hurt Hawke could imagine upon him, had the right, the audacity, to be alive, and... and _happy._

Irrationally furious, Hawke took his frustrations out on the darkspawn, his movements quick and agile as he swept through the battlefield, slaughtering entire groups of them at a time. An armored ogre stomped towards him under the direction of an alpha hurlock, who now considered the Champion the greatest threat in the room. The ogre killed several of its own kind as it cut a path towards Hawke, and Hawke growled at the challenge, his eyes glowing an eerie red for a moment, arcane smoke wisping from their depths, completely unbeknownst to him—the ogre charged, its horns bent low, and Hawke leaped over it with a deft spin, slicing at the exposed bits of the ogre's armored back as they passed around each other. The ogre slammed into the nearby stone wall, its horns lodged in the rock. It howled in rage, drool spitting everywhere as it struggled to free itself, planting two gigantic hands at either side of it's head and pulling desperately. Hawke didn't give it the chance, planting both of his blades into the ogre's thick hide, and twisting, slicing upward along the ogre's back until the monster made a strange, groaning inhale, and went still.

Behind him, a sudden flash of cold made him shiver—Anders had summoned a blizzard, freezing the rest of the darkspawn hoard and its leader along with it. The dwarf, Oghren, was cutting a path towards Hawke, his great axe swinging to and fro, shattering darkspawn icicles with a blasé flair as he yelled something about Hawke stealing all of his thunder. Malcolm was right behind dwarf, doing much the same, and the dwarven girl, protected by an unrelenting Anders, was still fiddling with the jammed gate apparatus, biting her lower lip in frustration.

Hawke nodded when Oghren caught up with him, and then pointed at the alpha hurlock. Together, the two of them quickly dispatched the leader, and then the rest of the hoard fell apart soon after. The waves finally stopped, then, strays crawling back into the shadows of the deep roads, shrieking in fear.

Exhausted, Hawke doubled over as the battle ceased, catching his breath. Oghren, bloody from head to toe and clad in heavy Legion armor, clapped him on the back. Malcolm joined them, giving Hawke a concerned lick; he immediately forgot his anger towards Anders, laughed, and scratched behind the dog's ears reassuringly.

“You must be that Champion feller everyone's been talking about,” Oghren said, with a note of respect. “Ain't no one else in these parts that can move like that, pretty sure.” Hawke nodded, still too out of breath to answer—he'd been awake too bloody long, and it was starting to take its toll—and opened the torn cloak he'd been wearing over his infamous armor. He lowered his hood, showing them his full face. Oghren grunted in surprise. “So you _are_ the Champion after all. Is it true you bathe in templar blood? I'm just curious, is all, because I heard that it makes you look younger, and I'm, uh, climbin' in years, ya see...”

“ _Aha!! Finally!_ ” The female dwarf grinned and pumped a fist of victory into the air. She'd finally fixed the gate, though he and Oghren were standing on the wrong side of it now. They walked back, Oghren muttering under his breath about useless rogues.

“Oh, you better be mumbling in thanks, Mr. Grumpy Pants.”

“Thanks? Yer _late_ , Sigrun. Battle's over.”

The girl, Sigrun, scoffed at Oghren. “Better late than never!”

“Almost was never!”

“Pfft. You were _fine_.”

“I've got a blister on my foot,” the warrior whined. “Mage, heal my foot.”

Anders twisted his hands anxiously, avoiding Hawke's gaze. He settled for staring at the floor. “Not going to happen,” he said softly. As Hawke, Oghren and the mabari crossed the threshold, Sigrun twisted the apparatus, and several stone doors slammed shut behind them.

Malcolm didn't seem to care about the drama going on around him. He made a beeline for Anders and barreled the mage over, and sending him crashing to the ground—the two dwarves thought it was an attack at first, and readied their weapons, until they heard Anders breathe a quiet, happy sigh. The dog was licking enthusiastically at one side of Anders' face, cleaning all the layers of blood and grime there.

Hawke was not pleased. “ _Really,_ boy? _Really?_ ”

The mabari barked in confirmation— _yes, really_ , the dog said, _he's my friend and I like him, so piss off_.

Anders gently pushed Malcolm back, smiling weakly as if to apologize to the hound. He wiped at his face with a grimace; it made him look odd because now one half of his face was clean, and the other half, filthy. “Ser Barks-A-Lot,” he said softly.

“Malcolm,” Hawke corrected.

It was an old, friendly argument between the two of them, and for a moment, Anders looked at Hawke with clear amber eyes, like the last year and a half hadn't happened, and he and Hawke were still living together in High Town, while Anders avoided the increasingly vigilant gaze of the templars, and spit the occasional jealous jibe toward Fenris.

Hawke was too busy pouring sad puppy eyes over said Fenris every time the warrior's back was turned to notice or care that Anders wanted something beyond just safe place to sleep at night. At the time, Hawke and Fenris still hadn't mended things since _that night_ , and Fenris was pretending nothing had ever happened between them, which infuriated Hawke and made him want fix things that would never be mended again— _you've got your mage now_ , the elf said, _we've both moved on_ —the mabari barked again, impatient this time, and both of them blinked at each other.

Time shifted back into focus.

So much had changed since those days, and Hawke wasn't sure if he was more angry at Anders, or at himself for getting so damned... _involved_. He'd deny to his last breath that he ever felt anything for Anders beyond friendship, but that was a lie, and everyone knew it. That's why the betrayal hurt as much as it did. That's why it took such a long time for Fenris to forgive him.

“How wonderful to see you again,” Hawke growled.

The mage winced, ducking his eyes to stare at a cobweb on the other end of the hall. His skin became a few shades paler, knuckles white as he continued to twist and fidget with his hands like a scolded child. “Hawke, I...”

“Never in a million years had I thought to find you so close to Starkhaven. I thought you were through with mage-templar politics, but clearly you haven't--”

“What?” Anders looked up, then, surprised. “No, I've been in the Deep Roads, since... since...”

“Since you blew up the bloody Chantry? Since you _used_ me to--”

“Y-Yes.”

“What are you doing in Starkhaven? If _anyone_ catches you here, mage, templar _or_ Sebastian, there will be war in the streets. And I won't protect you this time.”

Anders floundered, his face heated with shame, and looked down at the floor again. He seemed to be on the verge of tears, but Hawke wasn't moved by the sight. Not this time.

There was a disgusted sound behind him, and the female dwarf, Sigrun, stepped between them, shoving Anders gently to her back as if to protect him. Hawke took a deep breath—to protest or apologize, he couldn't say—but then Oghren joined her, glaring from the slits of his heavy iron helm. “If you've got a problem with Anders, you'll have to go through us, first,” Sigrun said. Oghren grunted in acknowledgment.

Anders, shocked by the loyalty of his two fellow wardens, shuddered, then blinked, and this time, a tear did fall, streaking through the blood, dirt and grime there. “I-I don't deserve... Hawke, I'm--”

“Don't you dare apologize to me.”

“Then there's... nothing I can say.”

“No, there isn't,” Hawke said... but then, abruptly, he sighed, and the tension drained away. His look softened, seeing plainly how broken Anders really was. Now wasn't the time—it wouldn't ever be the time, as much as Anders might ache for it. Hawke belonged to another, and that's just the way things _were_. “Do you know the location of the mage underground here? Their central base?”

The sudden change of subject helped Anders compose himself. He wasn't able to speak though, and nodded his head, wiping at his eyes with shaking hands, smearing the grime further.

“Show me. Fenris was taken by mages, and they're passing through Starkhaven. They _must_ be here somewhere.”

“F-Fenris? Are they... Tevinters?”

“I don't know,” Hawke said, and it was his turn to fidget, running an armored hand through his hair, streaking gore through it by accident. He grimaced. “I hope not. Look, I've already wasted too much time, and I won't let the trail get cold again. Can you just—”

“Right, of course.” Anders took a deep breath, composing himself. Hawke just now noticed that the band that used to hold Anders' hair back was gone, and now it was loose and framing the mage's face, just barely brushing his feathered shoulders. It made him look... different. Fragile, if one dared to say it. Or perhaps Anders had always been on the verge of shattering, and it was only the way he'd carried himself before that made it seem so much less critical.

“I've never been there myself,” the mage murmured, “but I heard rumors back in... back in Kirkwall. There's a tower, almost fully buried in dirt by the edge of the forest. It was built by the ancient Tevinters... there's only one way to get inside from here. We'll need to head east through the catacombs.”

They headed out, Anders leading the way, the two dwarves always at either side of him, casting fierce, protective glances towards Hawke every five minutes or so. His stomach twisted itself in knots, though with anger or guilt, he couldn't say.

 

Anders and Oghren were locked in quiet conversation for some time as they moved swiftly through the tunnels, just out of earshot of Hawke. They seemed to argue constantly, most of them half-hearted in tone about ridiculous things, but some still tainted by the seriousness and regret that seemed to hang about Anders like an intoxicating fog these days.

“Perhaps not,” Oghren suddenly said, loud enough for Hawke to hear, “but if anyone's gonna kill you, it's gonna be Amell. I'm under strict orders here, and I ain't crossin' her for nobody. You _know_ what she's like, mage.” The dwarf had taken his helm off earlier, freeing messy red hair and a tightly braided beard. His voice, free of the metal confines, was quite gravelly, like it had been perpetually drenched in whiskey over a number of decades.

Walking beside Hawke, Sigrun winced. Hawke himself was more than a little lost, but the family name made his ears prick. “Amell?”

“The Warden-Commander,” Oghren called back, and then gestured vaguely. “Y'know, the oh so glorious Hero of Fereldan?” The dwarf rolled his eyes at the title—he was the first one Hawke had ever seen do so, as most spoke of her with nothing but utter reverence. Clearly, the two had a colorful history. “She's asked for Anders specifically. We're taking him back.” Oghren paused, looking back at Hawke. “Forcefully,” he admitted. “Sort of. Twinkletoes was set on dying in the Deep Roads like a proper Grey Warden, but plans... change, y'know.” He shrugged, trying to keep it lighthearted.

At the head of the group, leading them by torchlight, Anders said nothing.

“My cousin wants to see him? Why now?” Why not sooner, after Anders had abandoned his post? It wasn't a secret to the wardens that he'd been fighting with Hawke in Kirkwall, not after running repeatedly into Stroud, Nathaniel, and even King Alistair. Oddly, Hawke found himself concerned on Anders' behalf, unsure of what the wardens did to men who deserted... and then he squashed the emotion with a scowl. Perhaps it had something to do with the events in Kirkwall. Didn't everything else these days?

“Wait,” Oghren said, stopping in his tracks suddenly. “Cousin? She never said you were _related_.”

“Well, I, err, never met her. She was taken to the Circle at a very young age, and... well, you know how it is.” Although perhaps Oghren didn't—how well did dwarves understand what life was like for mages on the surface?

If Hawke's silent question was obvious, Oghren didn't answer it. “She'd want to see you too, I bet. You should come with us.”

“After we rescue Fenris,” Hawke insisted.

“After we pick up your boyfriend. She'd like that, reuniting the family and all.” Oghren seemed to think about that for a minute, then edited, “Err, probably.”

They fell silent again, this time with a more thoughtful atmosphere, save for Anders, who was looking as anxious as he'd ever been, and Hawke, who if left to his own thoughts immediately turned back to Fenris again. And since he couldn't think about that without going quietly insane with worry, he tried, as usual, to focus on other things.

If what Oghren was saying was true, then Anders could very well be marching to his death back in Ferelden. Hawke was vaguely surprised he wasn't putting up more of a fight, but most of the fight seemed to have been beaten out of him, for one reason or another... or perhaps his loyalty to the Warden-Commander really was that strong.

Hawke was betting on the former. Anders walked with a slumped, defeated posture, ducking his head slightly every time someone spoke directly to him, even to Oghren, of whom he obviously shared a deep, friendly rivalry. There was little left of the proud mage Anders used to be, though ironically, it was clear his actual fighting skills hadn't suffered; if anything, judging by his performance back at the gate, he'd gotten much more powerful. Hawke realized, then, that Anders must have been alone in the Deep Roads for months, fending for himself against the hoards long before the two dwarves found him. They'd already be in Ferelden, otherwise.

Had Anders received the Calling, or was was he simply wishing for death? He didn't think Anders was all that old as a warden, but it was hard to say...

Just as his eyes were fixated on Anders, Hawke felt Sigrun's eyes on him, as she kept pace by his side. He did his best to ignore it, but after a half-hour passed with little reprieve, he couldn't take it anymore.

“What?”

Sigrun, to his surprise, blushed, looking away. “You're a very odd man,” she said. “Cute, but odd.”

“You wouldn't _believe_ how often I hear that,” he cut back, sarcastically. “Do I need a haircut?” He patted at his head, vanity apparently consuming him. “It's gotta be the hair. I haven't bothered to trim in a long while.” He sighed somewhat dramatically.

She laughed a little, and shook her head. “No, I mean your outfit. All those buckles and straps... and the armor! It's a very interesting design. And your blades, too. You have very interesting blades.”

 _Ah_ , he thought, oddly relieved. A fan.

“The armor was a gift from Kirkwall, after I was declared champion,” Hawke sighed, bored now. Varric might love the stories behind his gear almost as much as he loved every other story about him, but how many times could Hawke recount his duel with the Arishok before it became old hat?

Still, her enthusiasm was infectious, so he indulged her. At least now she wasn't looking at him like she'd gut him for glaring at Anders; for someone as charming as Hawke was by default, it grated him when people didn't actually like him. It was a _thing,_ a quirk of vanity, something that Carver was probably right about, growing up. Hawke really did need to be the constant center of attention.

“This blade,” he said, drawing out the Key, “is... well, it _was_ my father's, sort of. There's some weird blood magicky thing going on with it. It was a whole thing about a darkspawn magister and such,” he gestured lazily, and while Sigrun seemed interested in the subject, he quickly moved on. “This one,” he sheathed the Key, and pointed to the other on his back, “was a gift from the Qunari. They called it Basraath-Kata.”

He paused, then, thinking of Taarbas' final words when handing him the weapon after Hawke had scrounged all over the damned city for those lost Qunari blades, free of charge. “By their beliefs, it carries my soul. I'm never supposed to part with it, apparently.” He grinned at her, then, and shrugged. “I just like it because it's shiny.”

Sigrun smiled at him, but looked confused, as he knew she'd be. “But there are so many stories,” she said. “Didn't you kill the Qunari? The tales always said you were a slayer of their people, and--”

“No, I don't use the Arishok's skull as a gravy boat,” Hawke drawled. “I don't sleep on a bed of dragon bones, either. It'd be bloody uncomfortable, for one thing.”

“Aw, that's too bad,” Sigrun sighed. “Made you more interesting, really.”

“I know, right? I'm pretty boring, all things considered.”

For the first time in what had probably been months, perhaps even nearly a year, Anders laughed. He stood a little straighter for just a moment, the color back in his cheeks, as he said, looking straight ahead, “That will never happen, Hawke.”

Perhaps not, but sometimes he still wished it were so.

 

Eventually, the walls of the catacombs slowly transformed from the solid, everlasting stone construction of the dwarves, to crumbling dirt walls and half-assed wooden mine supports that made everyone, especially the two dwarves, more than nervous. Every so often, the ground seemed to shift, and dirt would cloud down from the ceiling of the tunnel (“It's coming down on top of us,” Oghren shrieked, “ _move it, twinkletoes, it's going to cave in!!_ ), which had also gotten much more narrow until it was just above their heads. It _was_ far better lit, though, with torches maintained every few steps. Hawke clung to this concept, sure they were getting close, when suddenly Anders stopped.

“We need to keep going,” Sigrun said, and Oghren bobbed his head with affirmative, flaming braids flopping up and down. “I don't want to stop here, this tunnel isn't exactly solid.”

“Sodding human construction!” Oghren took a swig from a flask he'd miraculously pulled from his solid metal armor. “I hate this place. Rather die in the Deep Roads. You can still bury an axe in a genlock before it kills you.” He hiccuped as the whiskey, or whatever it was, went down. It smelled like the poison Hawke often coated his blades with—the sharp, acrid flair of Deathroot, with the cool minty twist of Fell, and something sweet... maybe that special Crow concoction...

“Shh,” Anders said sharply. “We're here.”

“I don't see anything,” Oghren grumbled. He took another swig, burping, and Hawke winced. The smell became twice as powerful. “We should... we should go back,” the dwarf slurred, wobbling a little. Another dust cloud fell from the ceiling, the dirt walls shivering. “Let's go, let's go now!”

“Oghren, _shut up_.”

“Make me, sparklefingers--”

“I'll make you do more than that, you whiskey-drenched midget. Now _shut up_.” The playful, mocking tone surprised Hawke—he hadn't heard Anders joke like that in years, and it seemed out of place now that he was eternally gloomy.

But Oghren grinned suddenly, as if seeing an old friend for the first time. He clapped Anders on the back with a heavy metal gauntlet, and the mage jerked a little at the impact. _“There_ you are, you manskirt-wearing freak,” he said. “Missed ya.”

“Oghren, you're drunk. I've been here for hours.”

“Pfft. That stick in the mud? Reminds me of the Howe boy, all that whining. 'How can I ever atone,'” Oghren said in falsetto. “'I made a big booboo and everyone hates me. Wah wah wah.'”

Hawke was expecting Anders to bite back viciously at the mockery, as he might have to Fenris or Hawke himself in one of his sour moods. But instead, Anders just laughed, shaking his head. “You're comparing me to _Nathaniel?_ I'm nothing like him,” he scoffed. “I'm much prettier.”

Oghren grunted, suddenly at a loss. He burped again, and wobbled backwards into the dirt wall. “Ya got me there.”

“Aw, I always knew you noticed. Why didn't you say something years ago?”

“What?” Oghren's eyes grew huge, and he shook his head, sliding back along the wall, away from Anders with flailing arms. “No, I didn't mean—well... hm... not unless... uh, no! Shut up! Shut yer filthy mouth!”

“Exactly.”

Hawke wasn't sure _why_ they were stopping, because the tunnel seemed to go on for stretches straight ahead of them, until there was little but a pinprick of black far, far off. But Anders seemed to know what he was doing, and Hawke was exhausted enough not to protest or participate in the bickering. With a sigh, the mage released a tiny wisp from his staff. The ball of light floated down the hall... Hawke felt something strange stir in his gut. He frowned, opened his mouth to ask Anders if he'd felt it too, when before them, the ball seemed to strike against water. The air rippled, and the long expanse of the tunnel faded, warping into a simple wooden door.

Anders approached it, and knocked, two sharp raps on the wood. “Justice for the mages,” he said, his voice now quiet and shamed—he glanced at Hawke, who had little sympathy for him, partly due to exhaustion, and partly because Anders didn't deserve it.

Anders looked like he wanted to say something, his mouth poised in perhaps yet another apology, but then the door opened, and there stood two well armed mages with staffs at the ready.

“Who are you?”

“We are allies,” Anders started.

“Don't expect us to believe you just because you have a password and some magic,” one of them said. “Answer the question.” The leader of the two guards, a tall man with dark hair and freckled cheeks, squinted over Anders. “Dwarves? Why would... _Champion?!_ Well put me in a dress and call me a templar! It's the blighted _Champion!”_

Hawke rolled his eyes, and then rubbed at them. A headache was forming. “Yes, yes, I'm the great and adorable Garrett Hawke, get it out of your system while we're ahead of things, please.”

“We're wardens. My name is Anders.”

The guard swiveled to stare at Anders, giving him a long, hard look. “The Healer?”

Surprisingly, Anders met the stare straight on, his own expression still as stone. 'Healer' was spoken with peculiar reverence. After a long pause, he finally nodded.

The two guards paled, caught somewhere between worship and fear.

“You're that warden from Kirkwall.”

“Naturally,” Anders muttered.

“And you bring the Champion with you.”

“This is not a rally, and we are not here for pleasure.” Suddenly, Anders' voice was hard again, his shoulders set in a determined line. ”We're looking for someone. An elf with strange markings, taken by Tevinter slavers.”

“I know nothing of it, ser, but I can take you to someone who might.”

“Please do.”

 


	4. Amell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They enter the tower, and run into another new face.

 It was a tower. Buried underground.

Hawke tried to wrap his head around this.

“A tower,” he said to Anders. “Underneath the ground.”

“Yes. It was built by the Tevinters ages ago, and--”

“Underground?”

“Something... happened, I don't know.” Anders made a frustrated sound, pulling at his hair briefly. Hawke tried his absolute best not to notice how utterly adorable the mage looked when he did that. Behind him, Oghren snorted, clearly unimpressed, and Sigrun smacked the dwarf on the chest. “It's been here for centuries, Hawke. The mages found it not long after the Starkhaven circle was burned. They added the tunnel for access. I... err, well I helped them. With the wards.”

“So that password wasn't just a coincidence,” Hawke muttered, his mood sour now.

“Err... no,” Anders said. “I helped organize movements all around the Free Marches. That's... that's why they know me.”

“I see...”

“Hawke, I didn't lie. You just never asked.”

“No, you said you'd 'heard a rumor,' Anders. This is a little more than a damned rumor.”

“Err, so maybe it was a _white_ lie, but... Hawke, I'm--”

“Forget it.”

He didn't want to hear an apology from Anders ever again, because they seemed about as sincere as Oghren's occasional attempts to be sober. It wasn't like an apology would bring back the Grand Cleric, or erase Hawke's unintentional part in her death. An apology wouldn't close the rift that had formed between them; an apology wasn't going to bring Fenris back to them, and kill the bastards who took him.

Anders hissed, like he'd been stabbed. He walked ahead of them, his eyes glistening suspiciously, and Hawke slowed his pace, to fall in step next to the two dwarves.

Sigrun frowned at Anders' back, and then glanced sideways at Hawke. “This isn't about the lie, is it?”

“No.”

“Reads like _Dark Town Nights_ to me,” Oghren grumbled. The two stared at him—Oghren blushed, then covered it with a growl. “What? A man's got needs.”

Had to be one of Varric's. Only Varric could drag a traditionalist, bumbling, overly-compensating manly-man dwarf like Oghren into reading a romance serial and then _admitting_ it out in public.

“We're not...” Hawke sighed in frustration. “We've never... I don't... it's not a bloody _romance_.” Anders had always been interested, sure, but Hawke's eyes were fixated on Fenris... or so he'd told himself repeatedly, over the years. “It's... complicated.”

“Still sounds like one of them chick stories,” Oghren said, and then took another swig. “Don't worry. You're still a killer on the battlefield.” The dwarf whistled low, his eyes looking off into some glorious memory of their battle at the gate, a memory that Hawke had already written off as just another day in the office. “I haven't seen anyone move like that in years. Not even the assassin, uh... whats-'is-name... the elf... uh... Zevran, right! Not even Zevran moved like that.”

“Hey,” Sigrun said, smacking Oghren's chest again. “What about me? I'm fast!”

“Uh huh, and I'm outta whiskey.”

The two started a long, but somewhat light-hearted bickering session. Hawke let it fade into background noise. He should be surprised Oghren had known Zevran, but it seemed like everyone and their mother was somehow connected these days. Instead, he glanced around at the architecture, trying to imagine ancient Tevinters inhabiting it for some nefarious purpose over a hundred years ago.

He couldn't. There were too many mages nervously huddled in every crevice of the tower, even on the stairs they steadily climbed as they headed to what was apparently the surface. The stairs wound along the tower wall in a spiral, and each floor held a variety of rooms used for different purposes, depending on the need. The lowest floor was kept for guard duty, one room dedicated as a makeshift armory, the other, a place to sleep while watch was traded off between mages. The next few floors were used as quarters, with blankets and packs strewn about the floor; Hawke saw young children huddled together in sleep, a mother crooning tunelessly in their ear as she brushed their hair and thumbed through a grimoire. It was storage, after that, and then the next two formed a makeshift educational center, with elderly mages surrounded by a crowd of adoring young apprentices as they practiced some spell or another and asked for demonstrations in turn.

The lessons drifted into the stairwell, drawing Hawke's curiosity.

“ _Do you know why blood magic is forbidden?”_

“ _Because the templars are sods?”_

“ _No, child, because it's dangerous. Blood magic uses your life's energy to perform spells. If you use too much, you could kill yourself. But it's also very addicting, understand? The practice was learned from demons—desire, pride, wrath, ectera—and these demons want you to use the magic, to lure them into the mortal realm. Even if you don't give into them, there's always a chance that you will overcast in battle, and you will die. Or worse, in your weakness, the spirits will seize you, and take control of your body, turning you into--”_ There was a sharp clap, and the gasp of several tiny voices. _“--an abomination.”_

“ _I don't want to be an abomination, Mister Marund! They're ugly!”_

“ _Then remember to never to use blood magic, no matter how desperate you become. Better to die than to be trapped within your own body as you murder your family, your friends, and everyone you've ever loved. I've seen it happen, and believe me... the templars aren't right about a lot of things, but they have a point about blood magic, children.”_

“ _Y-Yes, ser.”_

Hawke hadn't realized they'd stopped until Anders shivered ahead of them, his expression carefully blank. He glanced at Hawke, then quickly turned away when he noticed the man looking back at him. Anders traveled up the steps again, the rest of them following.

The last several floors varied in purpose; there was a kitchen, more storage, more quarters, a practice room for apprentices, another armory, and finally, another guard station. Rather than torches, this last room—the guard station—was lit by the morning sun as it shown through several small stone windows up above them. As with the rest of the tower, it was trimmed by stone whirls along the edges, and runic designs etched into the walls. There was a ladder, leading up to a hatch off to the left of them, but the hatch was closed. A guard in simple chain-mail—not a mage, clearly, as he was armed with a sword and shield—stood by the ladder. When he caught sight of them, he frowned, and then pointed to the right, to a doorway lit by the warm glow of a hearth fire.

Anders frowned, and the look on his face said that he wasn't entirely uncertain that all of this wasn't an elaborate trap. Hawke tensed, then gave Sigrun a look—she smacked Oghren gently on the chest, whispering into his ear. The warrior tensed as well, and then nodded at Hawke. Anders seemed oblivious to the three of them and their plans; he walked right through the open doorway, then stopped dead in his tracks.

“I thought I'd find you here,” said a hard, feminine voice. “We need to talk.”

 

Oghren grinned, suddenly, and shoved passed Hawke and Anders, his arms wide with glee. “Amell, you old tart! When in blazes did _you_ get here?”

Sigren bounced on the balls of her feet, then ran in behind him. Hawke was still in the doorway, feeling more than a little lost. The Warden-Commander. _His cousin_. Family, in a certain sense of the word. But he'd lost all of his family, save for the dog and Gamlen... and he'd never met his cousin before. Did she even consider him such?

“Commander,” Sigrun burst through after Oghren, “it's so good to see you!”

“Ah, good, I was wondering if you two were still down in the Deep Roads. You faired well, it seems.”

“More than well, we found the Champion too.” Sigrun called back from the room, flailing her arms in a way that was probably supposed to mean, _c'mere._ “Hawke, get in here!”

Almost irrationally nervous, Hawke crept up to the side of Anders, and peered inside.

Amell, the Warden-Commander, was wearing heavy silverite Ferelden-style armor with a black griffon emblem sitting proudly on her chest. The matching helm lay on a nearby table, her long black hair free and swaying in tight a ponytail. She had sharp gray eyes like his mother, with similar noble features—high cheekbones, a sharp jaw, a soft, upturned nose. Clad in such heavy armor, the only thing that gave her away as a mage was the glowing black staff on her back. It was black, and held a simple crystal caged in dark metal, which smoked faintly with cool white energy. From what he could tell in the doorway, the staff was Ferelden-style; it had no spear-tip, and did not seem to be built for melee combat.

But it was the sword sheathed beside the staff that drew his eyes, as he itched, on some level Hawke couldn't explain, to touch it. It was like some magical force in the sword wanted him to take it, to slay demons with it in the heat of combat. Although its master had tamed it with the blood of dragons, it still yearned for other attention. It was not sated, would _never_ be sated.

Hawke shivered, and he had to look away.

There were rumors about that sword. It was the same one, according to legend, that killed the archdemon.

“Ah, my infamous cousin,” Amell said, and smiled a little. The smile was somewhat pained, but sincere all the same. “Getting into all sorts of trouble, I hear. That seems to be a family custom, does it not?”

“Indeed,” Hawke said, at a loss.

The Warden-Commander crossed the room, her metal boots clacking against the wooden floor. She thrust an open hand at him—he took it with his own armored hand, and shook gently, the metal of both their armors clinking together. “It's nice to meet you,” she said, ducking her head to catch his eyes, which kept drifting down to the floor. “I've... never met someone of my blood before. Most of them died in the Blight, from what I understand.”

Hawke nodded, unable to speak. He knew he was being rude, but his mind immediately went to Carver—to his father, his mother... Bethany.

She looked so much like Bethany, it was disturbing.

That's when things became awkward very, very quickly. To his right, Anders squirmed in the doorway, coughing lightly. He blushed. “Err, Amell... Commander, ser, please don't take it personally. Hawke... ah, well, you look a lot like... it's... it's hard for him.”

“Ah,” his cousin said. Her eyes widened a little, and she blushed in turn. “I'm sorry, err, Hawke. This must be painful for you.”

“No, no,” Hawke protested, “ _I'm_ sorry, it's just...” Right, then. Hawke blinked the pain away, then sighed loudly. Time to change the subject. “What brings you here? I thought you were in Ferelden?”

“There's urgent business in the Anderfels. I stopped here on my way to Weishaupt, hoping to find these three.”

Oghren, Anders and Sigrun all exchanged knowing glances.

Anders was the first to say something. “It's about... _him,_ isn't it?”

“Yes,” Amell said, and her expression turned cold, expecting a rebuke the other three never voiced. Whatever they were talking about, it seemed to be an old, bitter topic concerning one of the Commander's less heroic moments. “And no, he didn't betray us. I don't fully know what's going on yet, but I still trust him.”

“ _Trust_ him?” Anders was outraged now, ignoring Sigrun, who was waving her hands at him in a, _Shut up, you idiot_ , fashion. Hawke stared at the lot of them, utterly lost. “Have you forgotten that he's a bloody--”

“Anders!”

“Ser,” Anders said, and ducked his head contritely. “I apologize, but ser, there are a lot of darkspawn under Starkhaven, and they weren't exactly happy to see us. They're organized. Marching somewhere. A _lot_ of them, ser. I was tracking them until Oghren and Sigrun found me.”

“I know what I'm doing,” the Commander insisted, somewhat coldly. “I'm aware of the situation.”

Oghren grunted something vaguely conflicted, glancing at Anders. “What about the Howe boy? We almost lost him back in Kirkwall, remember? From what I hear, if it hadn't been for the Champion...”

Hawke felt left out, but he _did_ remember Nathaniel. He'd barely pulled the man out of the Deep Roads alive, just earlier that year. Nathaniel had mentioned 'allies' of a strange sort, but he was vague on the details. “Will someone please tell me what's going on?”

“Nothing you need to know just yet,” Amell said, giving Hawke a hard look. It screamed, _mind your own business, civilian_. It grated to have such a commanding tone spoken at him, after he'd spent so long directing others in a similar fashion; he couldn't take that lightly. The two of them stood eye to eye, neither backing down or saying a word for the longest moment.

Then his cousin sighed wearily, shrugging her shoulders. She hadn't conceded, but the issue of who had the bigger stones was pushed back for a later day when they had the time to duel it out. “Listen, I need to speak to Anders. Alone.”

Anders blushed, looking like he wanted to crawl under a rock and die. Possibly back to the Deep Roads, where they'd found him.

The two dwarves nodded, slipping passed Hawke. Oghren gave Anders one last, comforting pat. “Nice knowing you, twinkletoes.”

The blush deepened as he squirmed in embarrassment. Anders looked, for all intents and purposes, like a child being scolded by his mother. “Shut up, fartface,” he said.

Oghren laughed, but it was a half-hearted, nervous laughter. He eyeballed the Commander again, then nodded to himself, following Sigrun out.

Hawke didn't want to leave—he glanced at Amell, at the woman who looked too much like his sister (and yet acted nothing like her, with too many scars, mistakes and anger pent up in her tiny, metal-clad body). He frowned. “You're not going to kill him, are you?” Hawke didn't know why he still cared, but he did.

Amell rolled her eyes, and shook her head. She put one hand on her hips and tsked at Hawke, exactly like the way Bethany used to do it after he'd cracked a particularly bad joke. Usually at Carver's expense. “Don't be ridiculous,” she said. “Now leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter feels like it's short and cuts off a bit too suddenly, that's because I actually did cut it in half. The next bit has a rather large info dump, and I wanted to break that up. We'll see if it was the right tactic when we toon in next time...


	5. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long overdue confrontation takes place between Amell and Justice. Then they all discuss boring political crap. Weee~!

Hawke couldn't get out of there fast enough, his face beet red as he breathed in gusts of stale air, the door closing with a decisive _click_ behind him. Hawke leaned against the wall beside the door and ran a hand through his hair. Beyond it, Amell's voice suddenly turned steely and cold.

“ _Was it consenting?”_

“ _What?”_

“ _Consenting. Did he give you permission to... to... this fusion between you and Anders, was it--”_

“ _I_ am _Anders!”_

“ _Don't lie to me. I can_ see _you underneath his skin, I can smell the Fade all over you--”_

Anders' voice took on the low growl of Justice. _“ONLY A DEMON TAKES A MAN'S BODY AGAINST HIS WILL, COMMANDER.”_

“ _You look demonic enough, from where I'm standing.”_

“ _I AM NO DEMON. HAVE YOU LET ENOUGH OF THEM INTO YOUR HEART, THAT YOU CANNOT SEE THE DIFFERENCE? BLOOD MAGIC RUNS THROUGH YOU LIKE A POISON. YOU HAVE CHANGED. YOU HAVE BROKEN YOUR VOWS.”_

“ _No, you don't get to judge me. Either of you. I've never struck deals with demons, or let them into my body--”_

“ _I AM NO DEMON!”_

“ _You weren't, once. But you've changed, Justice.”_

“ _SPIRITS DO NOT CHANGE! WE ARE ETERNAL AND CONSTANT. WE DO NOT--”_

“ _Get out of his body. Go back to the Fade, where you belong.”_

“ _ANDERS NEEDS ME. THE MAGES NEED ME. YOU NEED ME.”_

“ _He needs you to leave.”_

“ _I CANNOT LEAVE. I WILL NOT.”_

“ _Then I will_ MAKE _you leave!”_

There was a long moment where the only sound in the room was the Warden-Commander's heavy breathing. If Hawke took a peek through the door's keyhole, he'd see her trembling with rage, glowing with an angry red aura that was sure to terrify most anyone who knew anything about her power as a mage. Instead of striking her, Justice retreated.

Hawke heard Anders moan, like he often did after his many... episodes. He could almost hear the mage's eyes scrunched with pain, his voice soft with both humanity and exhaustion when he spoke again. “ _I don't know what was said, but he's very angry. Apparently, he respects you too much to physically threaten you. Or maybe you just terrify him. That's good. Last time Hawke tried to call him a demon, Justice threw him into a wall.”_

Justice and Hawke weren't particularly fond of each other, it was true.

“ _You've both lost complete control over yourselves. How_ stupid _could be? Why on earth would you let a spirit,_ any _spirit--”_

“ _Ser, he was deteriorating. You were there. He couldn't just keep inhabiting some rotting corpse! I wanted to help him.”_

“ _I'm the one that cleaned up your mess. I'm the reason they didn't march to Kirkwall and drag you back to the Keep! They were going to hang you for what you did! And how did you repay my efforts? You started a bloody war! A war, Anders! I don't care if you don't attend the meetings anymore, I don't care if you refuse to wear the arse-fucking colors, you're still a bloody Warden; one of mine, in fact, or have you forgotten? You're_ my _responsibility!_ _I_ should _kill you for what you've done, and the only reason I'm not going to is because Oghren would never fucking forgive me! And I happen to like Oghren!”_

Hawke knew he shouldn't be listening, but he couldn't help it. He struggled to keep up in the conversation—some of it had something to do with Anders leaving the Wardens, that he much he could tell. But... a hanging? Whatever Anders had done, to flee the Wardens... it was that serious?

So Anders had lied about that, too. No surprises there.

“ _You... you left,”_ came a low whisper, so low Hawke barely caught it through the door. _“The templars, they were--”_

“ _There were bodies, Anders!! You killed twelve wardens! And then you ran, to bloody Kirkwall, and--”_

“ _They weren't wardens, they were templars in disguise.”_

“ _I know that, but try explaining it the men at Vigil's Keep! I nearly lost my post, thanks to you! My command! Christ, Alistair wouldn't speak to me for_ months _!”_

“ _Amell, they might have dressed like wardens, but they acted like bloody templars! I doubt they even—wait, you_ believe _me?”_

“ _I'm not a damned idiot, Anders. You could have come to me instead of slaughtering twelve of my men wearing the warden colors! Did you even think about--”_

“ _You left us! We didn't have a bloody choice! It was defend ourselves or die!”_

 “ _We?”_

“ _Justice and I--”_

“ _Andraste's flaming tits, I don't know why I bother.”_

“ _Are you... are you going to kill us, Commander? We won't resist, not to you.”_

“ _I.... no, Anders. I won't kill you. Like I said, Oghren would never forgive me. Not that it makes a difference.”_

“ _What do you mean?”_

“ _I know.”_

“ _You... know what?”_

“ _Don't play me for a fool. You're a horrible liar.”_

Suddenly, a heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder. Hawke's eyes snapped open, and he reached to break the hand before he realized it was Oghren. He covered the move by running his own hand through his hair again.

“Spying on the lovebirds, I see?”

“What? No, I... lovebirds?”

“Joke,” Oghren shrugged. “What're they talking about?”

Hawke frowned and pushed away from the wall. He joined Sigrun on the other side of the room, who was sitting next to Malcolm, rubbing his stomach. The dog's tongue was lolling happily, giving Sigrun big wet eyes of pure dog love. She giggled, rubbing him more, combing her hand into the fur.

“Y'know, the Commander once had a mabari like this,” Sigrun said. “He was a beautiful dog.”

“Had?”

“Well, I haven't seen him for years. He was getting old, I think. He's probably staying with Alistair these days.”

“... _King_ Alistair?”

Sigrun bobbed her head, like it was nothing, and before Hawke could explore further, Oghren poked him with a metal finger to his side. “You never answered me, Hawke. What's going on in there?”

Sigrun gasped at the two of them, scandalized. “You spied on them?”

“Well... I was standing there,” Hawke said. “Not my fault I could hear them through the door.”

“Uh huh. C'mon, Hawke. Did she kill him?”

Hawke scowled at Oghren. “No, of course not. She said she wouldn't.”

“Heh, good, I like the kid.”

To his credit, Oghren really did seem relieved. His shoulders sagged a little to a more relaxed pose, and he joined Sigrun's side, eyeballing the mabari.

“So you really thought she was going to--”

“Amell's mabari was a proper war dog,” Oghren interrupted, changing subject. Hawke sighed, and dropped it. “This feller is a puppy. The other dog would never be _this_ relaxed with a stranger.”

“Hey!”

“Well, ya are. It took weeks for Barkspawn to trust me, and even then, we rarely got along. He did like that Quanari, though. Two peas in a sodding pod, they were.”

“He probably didn't like your breath, Oghren. Dog's noses are sensitive.”

“Hmph,” Oghren grunted. “This one likes me.”

Actually, Malcolm wasn't even looking at him. With Sigrun's hands on his belly, she might as well have been the only other being on the planet.

Hawke had to smile at that. “Malcolm wasn't at Ostagar, if that's what you're getting at,” Hawke said. “Err, I was there, my brother was there, but the dog... stayed home.”

Good thing, too. They'd found Lothering overrun with darkspawn, the mabari fighting alongside Bethany as they guarded Mother with their lives. They'd barely made it out before the true strength of the hoard showed up, but without the dog... well, Hawke was grateful. Malcolm saved his mother's life, even if it was only for a few more years.

Minutes crawled by as Hawke's thoughts turned back to Fenris, wondering, yet again, if he was safe, and if he wasn't here at mage-central, where they could possibly be. He doubted his cousin would condone slavery, but despite all the stories, he knew very little about her. The more time they lingered here to catch up, the further Fenris slipped from his grasp.

After what felt like an hour, but was probably moreso a few extra minutes, Hawke stood up, grumbling to himself. Oghren half-heartedly attempted to pull him back, Sigrun oblivious as she cooed at Malcolm in baby speak.

Hawke knocked on the door, and when there was no answer, he twisted it. Locked. It took him a total of five seconds to pick it, and another ten to recover from what he saw inside.

His cousin was translucent, one hand poised to touch the other mage. Anders looked visibly upset as he stared back at her, but his eyes were dry. He trembled a little, pale as death.

At Hawke's entrance, the Warden-Commander snapped back to solidarity, and glared at him for the interruption. Anders backpedaled, staring at the floor with his face flushed.

“Cousin,” the Warden-Commander growled, “if you please...”

“We need to get going,” Hawke insisted. “My... friend was taken by mages. By slavers. I was borrowing Anders for the journey, but I can't let the trail get cold.”

“His name is Fenris,” Anders said quietly, looking at the Commander with an expression Hawke couldn't read. It seemed... resigned, somehow, but steely all the same. “He's an elf, an ex-slave with lyrium markings. The mages most likely came from Tevinter.”

Amell calmed at that, nodding in understanding as she looked from Anders to Hawke and back again. The way her gaze rolled over him... somehow, Hawke knew that she knew what Fenris was to him, despite the fact that he'd been careful not to reveal it. Open among friends was one thing, but there were still parts of Thedas where a man could be hanged for admiring the wrong backside.

Still, his cousin seemed a bit too busy to bother with something like bigotry.

“I see,” she said, sounding a little tired. She rubbed at her forehead with a gauntleted hand, squinting at an oncoming headache. “I haven't been here long, but if there had been a magister hiding in the tower, I'd know about it. As would Anders, I suspect. It's more likely these Tevinters used other resources within the city to keep their entourage safe. If they're in Starkhaven, my coin is on Goren Vael.”

“Sebastian’s cousin?”

At the name, Anders winced.

The Warden-Commander nodded again, ignoring it. “Goren has more power than you'd think. He's been settled in the palace since long before Sebastian returned from Kirkwall, and has gathered enough support to maintain his presence there, even with the ongoing election. He wants people to believe Sebastian is leading the city, but that couldn't be further from the truth."

It was probably true; Sebastian  _had_ been hiding out in the Chantry, after all.

"Goren Vael has publicly supported rogue mages in the city," she continued, "appealing to families who'd lost loved ones when the Circle burned down. It's why he's winning the election, from what I understand; people in Starkhaven have become more and more pro-mage as the templars squeeze tight on families, reacting to the events in Kirkwall. But it's a facade; in secret, he's killed plenty of mages in the effort of laying blame, and there are even rumors that he's the one that's arranged the recent public executions, _not_ Sebastian. This close to the Tevinter border, the magisters _must_ have a hand in it... Goren's been known to hold council with Tevinter ambassadors. They'd obviously profit from a pro-mage Starkhaven.”

Hawke connected the dots. “So you think the Tevinters are going to use Goren to puppet the throne? Or try to, anyway?”

“I've met Goren,” Amell scoffed. “He's a pompous idiot, the sort easily controlled by anyone with enough charm. He couldn't get this much attention on his own, Hawke. Sebastian is the rightful heir of Starkhaven, but even the _intelligentsia_ are reluctant to support him, something that wouldn't have happened ordinarily without interference. It's no secret your friend buries deep resentment towards mages, but Sebastian clearly isn't the bloody thirsty maniac Goren wants the people of Starkhaven to believe...”

Anders cut in, his voice both quiet and tremulous. “He didn't execute those mages. Sebastian isn't a killer,” he said, which surprised Hawke. “He was never entirely supportive of mages, but he was always reasonable enough. He didn't hold onto his hate, either—even when his family was murdered, he eventually learned to forgive them. He... Sebastian forgave the woman who slaughtered his entire family. He said that hatred and rage were meant for demons, and as a brother of the Chantry, he had to let it go. How can anyone think a man like that would mindlessly kill innocent people, for whatever reason?”

“They weren't innocent to the Templars,” Amell pointed out.

“Sebastian would know better. Starkhaven doesn't need more death, and he'd respect the wishes of his people.”

It was cruel, but Hawke had to say it. “The only one Sebastian hates is you, Anders. It's something we have in common.”

After a moment of pained silence, Anders excused himself, fleeing from the room.

The Warden-Commander sighed, looking irritated. “Moving on. If Goren is harboring slavers, and I maintain it's a sound theory, that could lose his election. You should look into it.”

“I don't _care_ about Goren, Starkhaven and the bloody magisters! I need to find Fenris!!”

“It's the only lead I have for you, cousin.”

Hawke was ready to pull his hair. Nothing was _ever_ simple. _Ever_ . “How do you do even know all this? I thought the Wardens were neutral.” _You were certainly vocal about it to Anders_ , he thought.

“Yes, well, Duncan paid little mind to the tension between Loghain and King Calian at Ostagar—and you remember how that turned out,” she said, with a hint of old hatred. “I won't make the same mistake. Letting the magisters gain political power in the Free Marches wouldn't bode well for any of us.”

“So you want me to do something about it.” It wasn't a question, just a statement of the obvious.

“You're not a Warden, Hawke. You can do what I can't.”

Hawke tried not to growl at her—she had a point, and on some level, he did care about the fate of Thedas, the good of the common folk, doing his heroic-fucking-duty yet again, ectera, ectera, blah, blah, blah. But for the most part, he was still wondering what in damnation this had to do with Fenris. Fenris, the one who was most likely being ripped from Hawke's grasp forever, right at that very moment, in some nefarious magister ceremony that would erase every last memory they'd ever shared together, good or bad, until nothing was left but the battered pet wolf Denarius had always wanted him to be. Hawke and Fenris may never agree on certain things, but he would be a dead man before he would let... before he would...

Hawke had a habit of losing the things he loved most. Maybe it was inevitable.

But then he shook himself. _I don't give a damn about this war,_ he thought _, I don't care about these people, or Anders with his sad little sighs, the Wardens and their pretentious martyrdom, I don't care about magisters or the Free Marches, or threat of another Blight, all I want is my lover back._

“I don't care about Goren-bloody-Vael,” he said. “But if it's along my way... and I just so happen to influence things, on my current path... then fine. I'll look into it.”

There was a moment of tension, the struggles of two powerful sources of leadership clashing against one another. Then his cousin relented again. “Very well,” she sighed, clearly out of patience. “Take Oghren and Sigrun with you... and Anders too. He's better off with you, than where I'm going.”

Anders had a lot of enemies these days. From what Hawke had heard earlier, probably moreso within the Wardens then he'd previously let on. Of course, Hawke sincerely doubted anywhere in Thedas would be safe for the man, which is probably why he'd fled to the Deep Roads in the first place.

“And Hawke,” his cousin called, as he turned his back to her, intent on leaving immediately. He paused, but didn't move from the doorway. “Come see me at Weishaupt when you get the chance. There are... other things we need to discuss.”

He didn't acknowledge that he heard her, but it didn't matter. It was not a goodbye by any stretch of the imagination.

 

“I'm going alone, Anders.”

“If you think I'll let you--”

Hawke spun, grabbed the mage by his robes and thrust him against the nearest wall, fury clear in his eyes now. He was exhausted, he was sore, and there was no point in pretense when the only thing that mattered to him was still missing, with little hope of ever coming back in one piece.

“Let me? No, _let me_ remind you of how this works.” Hawke hovered close to the other man's ear, whispering in a mockery of intimacy. “You will shut your mouth, and you will speak to _no one_ other than these two,” he gestured to the dwarves, who were staring at him like they wanted to interfere, but knew better than try. “You will stay in the room you are given, Anders, and you will be there when I return. _You will not move_ from the time I leave, until I get back, is that clear? Otherwise,” Hawke drew the Key from his back, “I'll run this across your throat right now and put you out of your damned misery.”

“Hawke...”

“Is that a yes? Are you begging for death again? Just let me know, and I will end it once and for all. No more games, Anders. No more lies.”

The eyes, amber, seemed tinted with a strange milky film in the dim lightning. They glistened on the edge of tears, but rest of Anders's face was still as stone. For a moment, it looked like he would bend his neck back and let Hawke do it, but instead, Anders pushed at him lightly. Hawke relented, sheathing the blade again.

“Not yet,” Anders said in a flat, dead tone.

It was odd, but Justice did not leap at the mage's defense. All of Anders, even the parts connected to a raging, out-of-control Fade battery, seemed utterly destroyed.

“Good.” Hawke slung his pack over his shoulder, and whistled for the mabari. “All of you stay here. I'll be back before nightfall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, when Amell talks to Anders about him killing wardens, I'm referencing the short story Jennifer Hepler wrote about the fusion between Anders and Justice. Short synopsis: Anders fused to Justice after the Warden-Commander left Vigil's Keep for unknown reasons, and a templar-turned-warden named Rolan, sent to spy on Anders, attacked him with a bunch of others after finding out that Anders was an abomination. Bad Things Happened, and Anders hightailed it to Kirkwall to hide amongst the refugees. I consider that story canon, so it means that he lied to Hawke about why he'd left the Wardens in the first place, which made more sense to me than “I got tired of all the darkspawn.” Anyway, if you're wondering why Amell covered it up, well... I'm sure she has her reasons.


	6. Goren Vael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like all of Hawke's plans, this one goes to shit in a big hurry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've removed the character death warning, because as I've been plotting this and sorting out various details for the chapters ahead (the ones I'm actually writing, lol), I realize I might actually change that. This story has taken an abrupt, fascinating turn. So, yeah, no need to worry. Our babies are safe for now.
> 
> Too bad I can't say the same for Hawke...

Like everything else about Starkhaven, the Palace was bigger, a _lot_ bigger, than Kirkwall. It stretched over an entire district, surrounded by trees on the edge of a tremendous cliff that overlooked the Minanter River. Unlike the chantry, the palace did not lie in the center of the city, but rather at the back of it, so that any invaders would have to fight through thousands of angry citizens, an entire army of templars, and the various stone walls and gates that blocked each district before they would ever see the stone parapets of the ancient palace. The first walls of the palace were covered in royal guard, and huge sun-bleached ancient stone ramparts were lined with ballista and arrowmen. Coming up the road, Hawke was greeted by a tremendous gate cut into the wall, which was locked tight at the moment, with a small spattering of infantry standing guard there. The security of the palace seemed particularly heavy today; Hawke guessed that threats had been dealt on both sides of the current political struggle, and Goren was overcompensating.

Behind the first wall rose a tremendous dome on the left corner, with walls painted in fading gold, so gaudy and huge that people could cringe up at it from across the city. The bulk of the palace lay to the right of the dome, stretching over the land on the edge of the cliff, and closing in around a large courtyard before connecting back to the ramparts. The whole thing was carefully locked in on itself, with walls too smooth for climbing, and every last door guarded by alert, well-trained men. Hawke's original plan was to sneak in somehow; after all, it wouldn't be the first time he'd climbed or lockpicked his way into a place that he didn't belong. He'd done so time and time again in his youth, exploring (with a sense of thrill only teenagers could fully appreciate) the templar quarters of the Lothering chantry. From the shadows, he'd lay down the occasional prank that struck confused fury in the lot of them as they flailed about in their massive armor like a flock of headless metal chickens. But this was not Lothering and these were not calm, good-natured templars scowling at the mischievous youth of the city. This was Starkhaven, and these men would soon kill you if they found you in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with no permission to be there.

Hawke sighed, and glanced down at Barkspawn. The dog was oblivious to his dilemma, but alert for danger as always, his eyes fixed on the patrolling men walking back and forth along the gate. The two of them were hidden in some brush off the edge of the road while Hawke scouted the area.

“Okay, boy,” he said, pulling off his cloak. He'd used it to cover his armor, as he'd done previously, in the faint hope that no one would recognize him. “Looks like I get to pull the Champion card. Do you think they'll greet me with open arms, or kill me?”

The dog, knowing not to make loud noises, grunted something that probably meant, _I don't know, I don't care, and I hope this mission ends in food soon_. Hawke pat him then slipped from the shrubbery out of sight of the guard, brushing himself off. The dog followed soon after, shaking off debris, and the two walked up the road, directly towards the gate, Hawke's hands free and clear of any weapons.

By the time he reached the patrolling guards, they were murmuring amongst themselves, pointing at Hawke not-so-covertly like little boys meeting some idol that represented the whole of what they wanted to be in life. In truth, this particular result of his fame had always made Hawke very uncomfortable, but at least they weren't waving their swords at him. Starkhaven was Templar Central in the Free Marches, and most templars wanted him dead for very good reason. Hawke had been gambling on the information from Amell, that the city was more pro-mage than he'd been lead to believe; it looked like she was right.

“Hail, Champion,” one of the guard said, a man with slightly more decadent armor than the rest, and held up his hand. “There were rumors that you were in the city. His royal highness wishes to see you.”

“And here I thought I was so stealthy. Like a cat,” Hawke said, sighing dramatically. “Oh well. Front gate it is, then.”

“Err... yes, Champion. Open the gate!”

The last was called to men standing at the other side, who moved the lever of an apparatus connected to the gate. Slowly, it rose, hand-cranked and fighting gravity; when it lifted just enough for Hawke to walk through, the man on the other side locked it in place, and released the lever.

The gate was very sharp and deadly looking as Hawke passed underneath it. He didn't trust it, so he moved quickly, then followed a guard across the illustrious courtyard, which was lined with expensive marble statues, careful landscaping, and it's very own gold-trimmed pond complete with exotic fish and a waterfall. Hawke was trying not to roll his eyes at the wasteful spending of money everywhere he looked. Kirkwall had been clean and efficient about their palace, and the Viscount's seat was moreso an office than some holy pedestal. But the way people in Starkhaven acted, you'd think whoever sat on the golden chair shit diamonds and received moral guidance directly from the Maker.

The inside of the palace was even more gaudy, with flourishing golden trim lining the walls, and huge white columns stretching up to a vaulted ceiling. The ceiling was decked in painstaking mosaic which seemed to depict the magisters invading the Golden City, and something about Andraste under a faint halo that was supposed to represent the Maker's blessing.

The floor was a cold, hard marble (like everything else), each square trimmed in yet more gold. To his side, Malcolm's paws clicked loudly, echoing off the walls. By contrast, Hawke's boots barely made any noise at all, as they were built for stealth. Ever the opportunist, Hawke reasoned that he could sneak about the palace relatively easily, once he actually got inside the damn thing. And now that he was inside...

 _No_ , Hawke scolded the Isabela-voiced section of his brain (the one that _really_ liked shiny objects), _we're here for Fenris_.

The throne room was even bigger than the hall, with yet more mosaics, and colored glass windows that overlooked the cliff's edge. Up high so he could look down on the entire world, sat Goren Vael on the throne, smiling at Hawke the way a jackal might.

He carried much of the same features that Sabastian did; sharp chin, vivid blue eyes, short blond hair, and a face built for smiling it's way into the hearts of unhappy nobles. He was dressed in a royal blue robe trimmed in both gold and red, and every single finger wore some large, expensive ring that made Hawke cringe in equal parts distaste and jealousy. He was a little chubby, with a soft neck and belly, missing the hard edges that made Sebastian a honed instrument on the battlefield.

“Ah, Champion!”

“Ah...” Goren? Mr. Vael? Ser Vael? Ser? Serrah? Messere? Shall-I-Kiss-Your-Ass-Now? Where-The-Hell-Is-Fenris? Hawke wanted to pull his hair, but then he knew only one title would be appropriate, if any rumors were true of the man's ego. “Your highness. I hear you wished to see me?”

“I do!” Goren flicked his wrist, and the door to the throne room slammed shut. Startled, or perhaps sensing danger that Hawke was clearly missing, Malcolm ducked low into a battle stance, and began to growl.

Goren smiled.

“Your highness,” Hawke said again, “is there something I should know?” Hawke resisted the urge to draw his blade; nearly every guard in the room had arrows aimed kill him from a distance should he try anything. He cursed the other little voice in his head—the one that sounded like Varric this time—that reminded Hawke that heading straight into the lion's den alone was a very bad idea, and perhaps he should have listened to Anders, rather than offering to put the poor bastard out of his misery.

Exhaustion, love, and desperation had apparently made Hawke a very stupid man. But that wasn't much of a revelation, really.

The prince steepled his fingers, humming softly in what might have been an affirmative to this, if he could read Hawke's mind. He looked beyond Hawke, to something at his back; Hawke spun around, and this time, immediately reached for his weapon.

“Ah, ah, ah, don't you move a muscle, my dear.”

She was a mage dressed in black and gold Tevinter robes, with hair the color of blood pooled around her shoulders, and piercing green eyes that fairly hummed with magic. Hawke's pose was locked, both arms still poised over his shoulder to grab his daggers. Beside him, Malcolm whined, and then lay down on the marble floor. Hawke watched, helpless, as the dog quickly fell unconscious.

“There, there,” the woman cooed. “Such a good dog.” She turned her gaze back to Hawke, and smiled, tilting her head slightly. “Don't you want to rest, little boy? You look _so tired_.”

Hawke fought tooth and nail against her, exactly as he had the last blood mage that attempted to control his mind. But unlike Idunna, The Exotic Wonder of the East, this woman was very, very powerful, and trained, mostly likely, under the direct guidance of a Tevinter magister—if she wasn't actually one, herself.

Despite how hard he fought against her, his entire body trembling at the effort, he couldn't break free of her control. She cringed at him, biting her lower lip in effort, but it was no use. Hawke fell to his knees, dizziness washing over him.

His vision shifted in and out of focus, dark at the edges. Feminine high-heeled shoes came into view, clacking on the marble floor. A hand brushed gently at his hair. “Shhh,” she whispered, right in his ear. The sound, snakelike, reverberated within the cage of his skull over and over and over.

“Sleep. That's a good little boy... you rest now.”

He was so, so tired.

Hawke fell to his side, his head hitting hard against the marble. The mage clucked her tongue, making a pained noise, but her fingers were gentle as she knelt beside Hawke and brushed at his hair. He felt her pull him into her lap. She fingered at the side of his head where he'd struck the floor; pain erupted there, but he had little energy to resist. A concussion?

“Don't fight me, dear boy. Close your eyes...”

He refused, whispering a name on his lips. Beyond her, with his vision barely able to focus, he saw the blurry form of two men slip from the shadows.

One of them was Fenris.

Hawke suddenly squirmed against her, fighting the heavy tug of gravity pulling him down, his muscles little more than jelly.

“Sh-sh-shhh... quiet, dear boy, stop your fussing.”

“Foolish girl! Why are you having such trouble with him? Put him out!”

“Master, he's strong. There's magic in him, and it fights against me.”

“Nonsense, he's no mage!”

Hawke clawed a hand at the air, towards Fenris, who was so, so quiet, so vigilant, so... _Fenris,_ _why aren't you looking at me_ , Fenris with a black collar around his neck, _what have they done to you, please look at me, I need you, Fenris, please, I'm so sorry--_

A long black cloak filled his vision, and then there were boney hands against his eyes, forcing them shut.

_No, don't take him away from me again, if you hurt him, I'll kill you all, I'll--_

“Take care of Master Vael. I will see to the Champion.”

“Of course, Master.”

A red haze settled over his thoughts. Hawke clawed at it but was like fighting a mist, and some part of him roared in fury. He felt himself rise in answer to the invasion, shoving at red haze ineffectively, trying to push it out and clear his mind again. For the briefest moment, Hawke felt energy surge through him; he lurched, his eyes flying wide and smoking with a strange, red energy as he met the face of an old magister. He shoved at the man, growling low and feral in his throat... and then he fell into the abyss.

“ _Fascinating!_  Wolf! Did you see that?”

“Yes.”

“Has he ever done that before?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

There was a pause, before Fenris gave his answer. “Once during his battle with the Arishok, and once during his battle against Knight-Commander Meredith. I do not believe he is aware of it.”

“I see... it must be as a result of his bloodlines. He's a real stallion, you know, bred from two incredibly talented families, the Amells and the Hawkes.”

“Amell... Master,” the woman spoke up, “why is that name familiar?”

“He's related to the Warden. _Everything_ is down to blood, Marie, remember that dear.”

“Yes, Master. I will.”

“My, my, I will enjoy studying you.” Boney fingers in Hawke's hair, caressing him lovingly. “Sleep, Champion.”

And so he did.

 


	7. Fenris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood mages really need a new hobby. This one's looking pretty much old hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some sexual content this chapter between Hawke and Fenris. It's very mild, though.

“And the worst part was, she never actually _did_ teach me how to be a dragon.”

Fenris smiled at him, a tiny, fleeting thing that was there and gone before Hawke could reciprocate. “First of all, you're no mage. And even if you _were_ , I wouldn't trust her not to eat you in the process.”

“Darling, the only one I want eating me is you.”

“Are you _ever_ serious, Hawke?”

“I try not to be.”

“So I've seen.”

Fenris crawled into his lap on the chair, two strong arms wrapped gently about his neck. He dipped in to nibble at Hawke's collarbone—Hawke tilted his head to the side, his eyes glazing slightly as he stared into the flames of the fireplace. Something seemed... off, about the flames, as they danced in his vision, the edges blurred and their tongues lashing at the air... he squirmed against Fenris, distracted.

“Stop fussing, Hawke.”

A slow lick along his jaw, teeth tugging at the lobe of his ear... Hawke shivered, curling his fingers into fists.

Heat, there was no heat. It was cold in the room, so cold that Hawke's breath drew fog, and... that didn't make sense at all, because they were sitting by the fire, and—“Fenris,” Hawke started, pushing at the elf in his arms. Fenris grunted in protest, snatched Hawke's hands, and held them forcefully on the armrests as he started a path of butterfly kisses towards Hawke's collarbone. “Fenris, it's cold.”

“I'll warm you up, then.”

“But why? The fire--”

“Shh,” came a whisper in his ear. It rattled around in his mind like a spell, and Hawke was lulled into it. Suddenly, in a confusing shift from one moment to the next, Hawke's shirt was gone, and Fenris tongued at his belly button.

Hawke arched into it, even as he knew this was wrong.

“This isn't right,” he said, trembling, cold nipping at all the wet, exposed skin. Fenris licked and nibbled his way down to the button of Hawke's pants, and Hawke couldn't pull away, didn't want to even though he should, because... because... “I miss you so much,” he whispered.

“I'm right here, Hawke.”

“Are you sure? I don't... I don't understand.” Another violent shiver coursed through him, and Hawke curled against his lover, aching for just a little bit of warmth. “Fenris, it's very cold...”

“Shh...”

 

He woke with his mind swaddled in feathers, noises muffled and indistinct. He blinked, the world a blurry haze of colors... a gentle hand, feminine, brushed the hair from his eyes, though things became no more clear.

A dog was barking.

“...kill that filthy beast!”

Suddenly, the hands were gone. There was a violent scuffle to his left. A scream, and then... silence. A cold wet nose nudged at Hawke's neck. Quick, worried licks along his cheek. A low whine. Hawke groaned, rolling to his side.

The nose prodded at his hair. Then there were teeth at his collar, tugging him along a chilly stone floor in hard, short bursts. Hawke groaned again, swatting weakly at the dog—“Go 'way,” he slurred. “Tired.”

Surprisingly, the tugging stopped, and the dog licked at his face again. Hawke heard another low whine, and then the beast ran off.

He drifted, curling into himself on the stone floor. It was very cold, and he began to shiver again, teeth chattering lightly. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to do little else but lie there... eventually, there were a different set of hands on him. They were gentle, but firm, and armored in spikes of metal. They lifted him up, and Hawke face came to rest against a cool neck. He breathed in the skin there, and smelled lyrium.

“Fenris,” he sighed. The arms carrying him jerked slightly.

There was a voice, muffled, and the blurry shape of a man in black, when Hawke cracked his eyes open to greet it. An old, boney hand touched his forehead, and a comforting red haze wrapped around his mind like a warm blanket. He embraced it.

 

“For what it's worth, I'm sorry. But at least you _knew_ your family.”

Hawke winced at the bite, but it wouldn't be Fenris otherwise. The elf sat beside him on the bed, glancing at Hawke and then looking away to stare at other things, like he didn't know what to do with himself or why he was even here, just that he had to be. Because Hawke needed him. Hawke stared down at his hands, hands that had held the last breath of the... the _thing_ his mother had been molded into.

There was nothing he could say.

“Hawke...” A hand on his shoulder, gentle, reassuring in all the ways Fenris rarely was vocally. For all their disagreements, Fenris could _say_ one thing, half of his statements laced in Arcanum curses, and his body would say another thing entirely.

Hawke needed comfort, but he wasn't sure if Fenris knew how to give it. The elf didn't understand what it was like to lose everything, because he couldn't remember having lost it in the first place. Hawke wasn't sure he wanted Fenris to remember, either, because he wouldn't wish this pain on anyone.

The elf's hand squeezed, very gently, even as the voice above it, right next to his ear, said, “Don't be a coward. You can't hide in this room forever.”

Hawke leaned into the touch. “Sure I can,” he said. “I'm going to take root right here and you'll have to come once a day and water me so I don't wilt.”

“You're not a flower, Hawke.”

“Well, no. I was thinking more like a tree. A very manly, thorny tree, inhabited by dragons and giant spiders and angry elves.”

Fenris kissed him gently on the cheek. Hawke didn't look at him; he heard the elf harrumph, and the hand on his shoulder slid around his waist. Hawke was pulled back unto the bed, Fenris wrapped around him like the vine to his proverbial tree. “Angry elf, is it?”

“You're always angry,” Hawke sighed.

“Not always.”

Fenris licked the shell of Hawke's ear, hands sliding south, dipping into his robe. Hawke shivered, and this time, it wasn't because he was cold.

“I miss you,” Hawke said absently, laying his head on the warrior's shoulder. He lazily nibbled at the skin of his lover's neck, just because it was there.

The hands sneaking into his robe paused, and Fenris ducked his head, searching Hawke's gaze. Hawke pouted a little.

“I'm right here,” Fenris said, his expression serious. “I'll never leave you.”

“No, you were taken from me. I remember.” Hawke scrunched his eyes, then, suddenly confused. “Or at least, I'm sure I do. We had an argument, and then... this is a dream. But it's a good dream. Keep going.”

“You're delirious, Hawke. Perhaps you should rest.”

“No, I'm fine. Let's just...” He trailed off, leaning in to kiss Fenris instead.

He was halted by a hand to his forehead. Fenris frowned at him. “Are you alright?”

Hawke rolled his eyes, but instead of protesting, he found himself at a sudden loss. “I miss you,” he said again, his voice cracking on the last word with a hidden misery he hadn't known he'd felt until it came pouring out of him in great waves of agony. “I failed you. I'm so sorry, Fenris. I tried, but I'm not strong enough...”

Fenris kissed him on the temple, stroking his back along the s-curve of his spine, voice a comforting whisper in his hair. “Shh...”

 

“...under sedation until I've found a better means of controlling him.”

“Master, he's waking up again.”

“So quickly? Damnation...”

 

They were back in the chair by the fire that didn't burn, but it didn't matter, because Fenris was warming him with lips and tongue, his hands everywhere at once, but no where near where Hawke needed it most. He groaned, his own hand sliding down to do it himself, when Fenris caught him by the wrist and pinned it to the chair. Hawke wasn't strong enough to break free, but that didn't matter, either. Fenris knew what he needed, and what he needed wasn't release. After release, came rest, and Hawke didn't want to rest, because rest meant the eventual return of reality, the reality where Fenris was gone, and there were only the Hands, and the Voices, and the the cold.

Fenris swallowed Hawke's groans with a rough kiss, and then, letting go of the man's wrists, he parted his thighs, and--

“UNHAND HIM, DEMON!”

Anders, and... Bethany? Standing in the doorway. Except, Bethany had tied her hair back, and Anders was... glowing.

Oh.

“He is mine,” Fenris said, his voice taking on a strange echo, like there were two of him speaking at once, and one of him had a higher octave than the version that Hawke was seeing. “Find your own plaything.”

Anders stepped forward, his cracked, glowing face contorted with rage. Bethany stopped him with a simple, raised hand, which was odd, because Hawke couldn't ever remember Bethany giving Anders orders, or having him listen to them, _especially_ when he was doing that glowing thing.

Bethany looked at Hawke with serious eyes that were blue instead of amber, and then smiled, a crooked, somber, twitch of a thing.

“Cousin,” she said. “This is the Fade.”

“Bethany, don't be silly. I'm wide awake. And, if you may, feeling a bit awkward what with you standing there while the two of us are having naked fun times, so if you please...”

”You're dreaming,” she insisted.

Hawke groaned, but not in the Fenris-is-reaching-down-south sort of way. Even though he was. Hawke slapped at his hand, giving Bethany a glare. “Sister, can't we discuss this later?”

“No. You need to break free of this, Hawke.”

That made him twitch in confusion; Bethany never called him Hawke. She was his sister; she called him _brother_ and _Garrett_ and _moron_ and _childish jerk_. And that's when he remembered so suddenly that it startled him, like the cut of an old wound had suddenly burst open again, seeping blood all over what had once been scars.

“I killed you,” he said, his voice breaking a little. He squirmed under Fenris, pushing at him to stop. His eyes burned with a vicious pain. “In the Deep Roads. I killed you. I-I'm sorry, Bethany--”

“I'm not your sister,” she said, frowning at him. He couldn't tell if it was disapproval or genuine sadness. “I'm your cousin. They call me Amell.”

“Ignore them,” Fenris whispered in his ear. His voice turned sibilant, like a snake. Hawke's vision blurred over in a strange wash of colors, and he arched his back as Fenris touched him again.

Pleasure... no, not just pleasure, but _happiness_ and _joy_ and _love_ and _everything he'd ever wanted_ , it was right here in his arms, and he couldn't help but mutter “I love you,” and, “I miss you,” and then, increasingly more desperate, “I miss you so much, Fenris, I'm...”

“Shh...”

“DON'T YOU DARE, DEMON! UNHAND HIM, OR I WILL _\--_ ”

Hawke was caught in a strange suspension of _never ever let me go,_ when Fenris looked up and glared up at Anders, his eyes taking on a strange, purple hue, his voice echoing again with that other... being. “Or you'll do what, spirit? This is an intimate, loving affair, and you'd do well to leave us alone.”

“YOU KNOW NOTHING OF LOVE, FOUL CREATURE.”

“Justice,” Bethany said, “that is enough. We cannot kill the demon without harming Hawke, that much is obvious.”

Fenris paused in his butterfly kisses along Hawke's stomach. Hawke's mind was somewhere else entirely, as time seemed to shift around him and the physics of the world began to crumble. Was Fenris _here_ , or was he _there_?

The echoing voice of his lover seemed amused. “She's a smart one," he goaded to Anders. “Perhaps you should listen to the Warden.”

“LET US KILL THEM BOTH. BETTER TO BE SURE THEN LET SOMEONE AS DANGEROUS AS THE CHAMPION BECOME POSSESSED BY A DEMON.”

Fenris laughed. “And you would know, wouldn't you, spirit?”

“Justice, _stop it_ . What you're planning, it wouldn't kill Hawke, it would make him tranquil! I'll die before I let that happen, and so would Anders... or have you forgotten, _demon_?”

Anders turned his staff towards Bethany in the doorway, slipping into a battle stance. Bethany merely glared at him.

“I HAVE TOLD YOU THRICE ALREADY THAT I AM NO DEMON! _”_

“Yet you act like one, spouting all this rage towards anyone you deem unworthy. Are even you still Justice? You sound more like Wrath to me.”

“I AM JUSTICE! I ACT ON BEHALF OF US ALL.”

“You act on behalf no one other than yourself. You will not make my cousin tranquil while I still breathe.”

Anders faltered then, fear present in his glowing eyes. “IT IS FOR THE GREATER GOOD, COMMANDER. SURELY YOU CAN SEE THIS.”

“You know you cannot defeat me, Justice. Should you try, I will end both you and Anders at once. I would sooner let _him_ become tranquil than an innocent man, who is the last of my family and undeserving of such a punishment.”

“COMMANDER--”

“Last warning. Stay your blade, or I will stay it for you.”

“ _..._ VERY WELL _._ ”

Fenris hummed from his place between Hawke's thighs, and laughed low in his throat, the sound tainted by a demonic growl. “If you're quite done arguing amongst yourselves, I've an insatiable man in dire need of pleasure. Please leave.”

“Cousin, I know you can hear me, and I know that on some level, you're aware of what's happening. I sensed it in you back at the tower—you're strong. You could break yourself free if you wanted to.”

“Well, clearly, he doesn't want to,” Fenris said, amused. He moved from Hawke's thighs and slid into his lap. He began nibbling at Hawke's neck half-heartedly, rubbing a steady hand along his ribs. It was more comforting than erotic now that Hawke's desires had changed. He didn't want to go back _there,_ and he didn't care what Bethany said on the matter. Here, he had Fenris, and Fenris was what mattered.

“You are dying, cousin. This demon will kill you, and Fenris, the _real_ Fenris, will be alone, a slave to the will of yet another magister. Do you want _that_?”

Hawke jerked violently in Fenris's grip, his mind shifting to a sudden clarity. “...No,” he said, after a pause. “I'd never abandon him.”

“Then get up.”

Hawke shoved Fenris out of his lap, and suddenly, he was fully armed and armored, looming over the elf with both daggers in hand. The elf trembled on the floor, looking up at him with wide, wet eyes.

“I love you,” Fenris said, his voice quaking with fear. “Please don't hurt me.”

Hawke paused, clouded by confusion again. He staggered a little, his head pounding. “I... Fenris... Fenris, I'm sorry, I would never...”

“That's not Fenris, cousin,” Bethany said gently. “That's a demon.”

“But it looks like...”

“THAT IS A DEMON OF DESIRE. KILL IT, AND YOU WILL SEE THE TRUTH.”

Fenris shook his head at him, pale as death. “Don't, Hawke. Don't do this.”

“I-I can't. I've lost everyone else, I won't--”

“DO NOT BE FOOLED BY ITS TRICKERY,” Anders insisted, his pulsing Fade-blue eyes glaring at them both. “THAT IS NO MORE YOUR LOVE, THAN I.”

The irony of the statement was not lost on Hawke.

He inhaled, held his breath, then released it with a shaky sigh. He knelt before Fenris, both daggers held at the elf's throat in a crossed position. “If you were Fenris, you would fight back,” he reasoned, but it was halfhearted at best.

“I just don't want to hurt you, Hawke.”

“That's never stopped us before,” he said.

It was quick, efficient and utterly painless; Fenris's form vanished from underneath him, and suddenly, the room was gone, replaced by the bizarre, blurry landscape of the Fade. They were inside of a castle, it seemed, in a dungeon of some sort. It was dark, and cold, and damp, and Hawke shivered again in confusion.

“BEHIND YOU!”

He spun, and saw the true form of a desire demon, half-naked dress, horns, and all. She smiled at him tenderly, rubbing a hand along her left breast. To his right, Justice moved towards her, a fireball summoned in his palm, but his cousin stopped the spirit with a glare.

“You must do this yourself,” Amell explained. “Her spell could still be in place. Only you can break it without doing further harm.”

The desire demon groaned, sending a shiver down Hawke's spine. “Are you sure you wish to battle me, Champion? I can give you comfort. I know your soul aches, and I can put a balm to those wounds. You will be happy in my care, free of pain and regret.” The desire demon frowned at him in a way that seemed... concerned. “I did not lie when I said that I love you, child.”

“DO NOT LISTEN _\--_ ”

“Quiet, Justice,” his cousin said.

A desire demon had little reason to lie. They pierced directly into the heart of a person's thoughts, pulling exactly what they needed to use against their victims. Thus, Hawke knew that she spoke the truth, at least in part. She could give him exactly what he wanted, and he would regret nothing, because she would take his regrets and every last one of his doubts, until there was nothing else but his own happiness, and it was his happiness that she would feed upon. It wouldn't matter that he would eventually die under her care, because Hawke was not afraid of dying. His life was ruled by the constant threat of death, and at least this way, he would die happily. Content.

It was more of an option than he'd given most others, in life.

“But Fenris will be alone,” he said.

“Fenris is strong,” the demon reasoned. “He will find his own way.”

“No.” Hawke formed a fighting stance, glaring at her. “I will not abandon him to slavery.”

The battle was over before it began; Hawke slit her throat, the violet blood spraying high into the cool air of the Fade. She flopped to the ground, gurgling in agony.

He looked away, and a gentle, human hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Well done, cousin.”

Hawke grunted at Amell. It felt like he had just killed a lover twice over, though common sense dictated otherwise.

“You've been captured,” his cousin continued. “We came to the Fade in hope of finding you. Do you know where you are in the physical world?”

“The castle,” he said, though he wasn't entirely sure. “Goren Vael is a thrall to the same magister that has taken Fenris.”

“WE HAVE ALREADY GUESSED AS MUCH,” Justice's deep, growling voice cut in. He walked around to face Hawke properly. Now that Hawke was fully aware, he was disturbed by the spirit's presence, who was still wearing Anders's body like it had been tailored to him. This was the same creature that had murdered the Grand Cleric, and started a war that soon destroy half of Thedas.

“YOU NOR FENRIS WERE AT THE CASTLE, _”_ Justice continued,“AND WE CANNOT PROVE THE PRINCE'S ENTHRALLMENT TO THE NOBLES. _”_

Hawke forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. “You've been there?”

Suddenly, Justice looked uncomfortable, glancing to the side in what would have been shame on anyone else. “WE AQUIRED... AID, TO INFILTRATE THE PALACE.” Then he shook himself, glaring at Hawke. “IT MATTERS NOT. YOU WERE NOT THERE.”

“Then I don't know. I've been kept unconscious, in case that wasn't obvious.”

“We'll find a way.” Amell hugged him gently, then kissed him on the cheek. It was more affection than Hawke would have expected from her, but things were so... unpredictable, in the Fade. What's worse, she smelt exactly like Bethany, all elfroot and poultices. “Don't give up hope, cousin,” she said.

It was a bit late for that, but Hawke didn't correct her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering how they managed to get to Hawke in the Fade when they aren't actually near him (and without Feynriel), I label it under the same category as to how they... well, how they got to Feynriel's dreams when Feynriel was either on the other side of Kirkwall, or up in the mountains with the elves. My theory is that you don't need to be near someone (relatively) to reach them in the Fade, because the Fade has no sense of time or place. But you do need something of theirs to connect them to you, and that much, I'm 99% sure the party already had on hand. So in other words, if they didn't have something or someone to connect to Hawke, they would have needed Feynriel's help, but they did, so no Feynriel. Yaaaayyyyy~!


End file.
